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SONNY 





The universe he ruled was an Airedale dou that had been kicked out 
into the desert to die. 


SONNY 


BY 


VIRGINIA BRIGHTMAN 

»i * 


«* 

Frontispiece by 
GEORGE W. GAGE 



J. WATT & CO. 

B L I S H E P— «/* 
601 MADISON AVE.. >4 EW yOKfc 

Qjjy'sfr- 


rar 





P U 



COPTBIGHT, 1923, BT 
W. J. WATT & COMPANY 



TO THE 

LITTLEST, SWEETEST GIRL 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
BOOK MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN, N. Y. 



©C1A778091 


A >> 


~ykb. 


SONNY 


C5Xc> 

£ 


CHAPTER I 


N my 'day dogs were dogs—black or brindle or 
yellow, but just dogs. If anybody had told 
me when I was running around with that old 
mut of mine that some day I’d be paying nine hun¬ 
dred dollars for another, I’d have-” 

The declaration of the big gray man who had laid 
down his paper to peer over the top of his glasses 
at the flushed, happy girl who had dashed into his 
study to show him her treasure was broken into by 
the girl herself. She held a wiry haired little ball 
of puppyhood in the palms of her hands, supporting 
his out of all proportion head and big feet that 
dangled helplessly. 

“Oh, but, dad!” she cried. “This is such an un¬ 
usual dog! Think of his pedigree! Why, his sire 
and his dam have both won prizes and prizes for 
ever and ever so long! He’s a son of Champion 
MacAllister II. He’ll be Champion MacAllister III, 
do you know that! And at nine hundred dollars, he’s 
such a bargain!” 

Paula Grayson lifted the small bundle to her soft 
cheek to caress it with a mothering little motion. 




2 


SONNY 


Watching over his glasses, her father grinne3. He 
knew, and he knew that the girl knew, that though 
his voice might sound disapproving, and that in his in¬ 
most being he might really believe that paying nine 
hundred good dollars for a puppy whose eyes were 
just beginning to open on a world of which he was not 
even yet curious was a matter of folly, that he was 
never truly disapproving of whatever the beautiful 
girl who stood in front of him ever did. Too often 
she had dashed into that same well-fitted library with 
its masculine furnishings—the real home of a man 
who knew how to do himself well and had the means 
with which to indulge himself—to tell him of some 
reckless extravagance or other. Ever since she could 
remember, when she had been left motherless in 
childhood, Paula Grayson had formed the habit of 
making her father adviser and confidante, secure in 
the knowledge that he would think as she did. And 
big gray Jonathan Grayson, master of a half hundred 
mines, awesome in the business world to whomsoever 
he came in contact with knew and liked it. His business 
world was one thing; his daughter another. And it 
would not be stretching the truth to aver that had 
he, the man so used to power and wealth, been given 
the choice of two worlds, he would unhesitatingly 
have chosen that one in which his daughter existed. 

The girl, cuddling the puppy, grimaced at her 
father. The puppy, feeling her caress, let out a little 
whimper and his small red tongue lapped at the soft¬ 
ness he could sense. For the first time in his life, the 
mite felt a sensation other than the purely animal one 
of the warmth of his mother’s body, the satisfaction 


SONNY 


3 


of the milk he had instinctively drawn from her 
nourishing breasts. This, though, was something 
different. Had he begun to think, he would have 
realized that it was the sense of smell that was now 
satisfying him, would have known that the perfume 
and the softness of the cheek of Paula Grayson, to 
touch which many less fortunate than himself would 
have given a wealth of worldly possessions, was 
something that deserved the touch of approval he 
gave in his own way with a lick from his pink tongue. 
The girl laughed and hugged him a bit tighter. 

“There, now!” she triumphed. “You see, he’s 
already beginning to take to me! That’s why I 
wanted an Airedale. They’re one-m an dogs, you 
know!” 

“Humph!” A rumble sounded in the throat of the 
big gray man as his shaggy brows drew together and 
whimsical little lines crinkled about his eyes. “Don’t 
look like much of a man dog at all to me. Now, once 
I remember I had a real he-dog, but he didn’t have 
such piano legs as that little critter, and he had a 
regular dog head, too—but my, how he could hunt 
rabbits!” 

“Was he pedigreed?” The girl glanced up from 
her puppy that had snuggled closer at the sound of 
the rumble as though instinctively scenting someone 
or something inimical to him. 

“He was part hound, part spaniel and some mut, 
I reckon,” the father grinned, “but I’ll say he had it 
all over this nine-hundred-dollar whimpering pup of 
yours for looks.” 

The girl’s nose, already tilted a little in a way that 




4 


SONNY 


admirers referred to as “adorable,” went up and Her 
nostrils quivered with amusement. 

“Oh, dad!” she cried. “That just shows what you 
know about dogs! To compare this wonderful little 
Airedale with all his good blood with some old dog 
of yours that could catch rabbits!” Again she 
snuggled the small ball whose opening eyes peered 
out questioningly, first toward one, then the other. 
She petted his head as she bent over him to speak, 
and his stump of a tail tried to waggle in answer. 

| “You know you’re a little aristocrat, don’t you, 
pet?” she crooned. 

A small whine answered her, and a closer 
snuggling at the roar that burst from the big man 
as his paper fell to the floor and he lay back in his 
wide comfortable chair, giving vent to his mirth. 

“‘Petr” he boomed. “‘Man-dog,’ eh? ‘Pet!’ 
Now, my dog had a name —‘Sonny’—there’s a he- 
dog’s name for you-” 

“Wugh!” feebly emitted the small animal in the 
arms of the girl who had dropped with him onto the 
arm of her father’s chair. Again the big mining 
man laughed. “See!” he commented. “He’s trying 
to tell you that that’s a name he likes!” 

“ ‘Sonny!’ Indeed!” sniffed the girl as she placed 
a kiss on the exact thinning spot she always held in 
reserve for it. “Silly!” Making fun of us, is he, pet? 
Well, just for that that’s what your name is going 
to be—‘Pet’! I was thinking some of calling him 
Arnold, but-” 

She slipped from the chair arm with her purchase 
and started for the door. 




SONNY 


5 


“So much discussing nothing,” she declared, “and 
here’s Pet without his milk! They told me at the 
kennels that he must have it every two hours!” 

There was an indulgent smile on the face of the 
father as he picked up his fallen paper and the girl 
slipped through the door with a snatch of song on her 
lips. His gaze wandered to the big logs blazing in 
the wide fireplace, and up toward the full-length 
painting of the woman which hung there, and his 
eyes, already soft, grew more so. The girl’s mother! 
How he had loved her! How he had loved Paula 
first because she was that woman’s daughter—and 
now, how he cared for her for her own beautiful, 
elf-like self, the one big w r arm feature in his life. He 
smiled again as he thought of the nine hundred dollars. 
How glad he was that he could give Paula nine 
hundred or nine thousand or any other amount for 
anything she chose to have. That it had been spent 
on a silly little pup meant nothing; that that pup was 
giving her pleasure, meant much. 

“Pet’s” eyes opened wide and he showed signs o£ 
an awakening interest as the girl ran lightly into her 
own room and deposited him carefully on a soft-hued 
silken pillow on her chaise longue. His nostrils 
quivered and he somehow knew that everything was 
right: he was again experiencing the pleasant odor 
of perfume that hung about the girl and now 
permeated the whole room, even clinging to the 
pillow on which he lay. It was a strange world, but 
on the whole rather a delightful one; he was con¬ 
sidering, without knowing that it was the first time 
in his three weeks of life that he was considering any- 


6 


SONNY 


thing. There was something bright and soothing, 
too, all about him. Color! He didn’t know what it 
was, but it was pleasant to his senses. The whole 
room was a rose-hung ivoried bower, just the sort of 
room that even a pup might expect would belong to 
the dark-haired, flashing-eyed girl who stood in the 
middle of the floor while her maid took from her 
shoulders the sable coat that had felt so warm when 
the pup had cuddled against it. He knew, too, that 
he liked the sounds he heard—rippling, musical 
sounds that issued from the girl’s throat, though 
he could not know yet that it was talking he 
heard. He had heard few such human sounds in his 
life. Conversation for Pet had been made up of 
the barks with which his mother had welcomed the 
approach of her food, and the gruff, though kindly 
tones of her keeper as he had given it to her and 
stooped with an encouraging word to pat her head. 
And even then, there had been so little time to listen. 
Pet had always been so ready for his own nourish¬ 
ment at those times—just as he had been at all times. 

“Hurry, Celeste,” the girl commanded. “It’s past 
time for his milk, and you know we mustn’t neglect 
him. He’s a valuable puppy—cost me just exactly 
nine hundred dollars—at a bargain—and I intend we 
shall win just heaps and heaps of prizes!” 

The cushion was so soft; it smelled so sweet; the 
voice such soothing music. Before he knew it, the 
pup had curled himself comfortably, his bright 
little eyes had shut and he was sleeping with his black 
nose between the two front unwieldly paws with 
their piano-leg-like architecture. When he awoke, 



SONNY 


7 


it was to feel milk trickling down his throat. Another 
new sensation, and one which he did not care for at 
first, for the girl was dribbling it into his mouth with 
a spoon, when any sensible pup knew that the way to 
get milk was to draw it from his mother’s breast. 

But in time, the puppy became used to the milk 
giving, just as he did to the silky pillows, and his 
own soft one over by the fire with the cheerful 
crackling logs at which he would gaze for half hours 
at a time before he got used to using those legs of 
his which somehow seemed always to be in his way 
at first; got used to the rosy hangings and lights; the 
perfume and the smell that rose from the 
burning hickory. It was all part of life, and though 
at first it in a way irked him, though he knew not why, 
he got used to the pettings of the girl, and those of 
the maid who always stooped to give him a small 
pat whenever she passed him. He wondered why 
it was that there always seemed to be such a queer in¬ 
flection in Celeste’s voice as she bent over him to 
whisper: “Nine hundred dollars!” What could 
there be that was strange in his being connected in 
some way with nine hundred dollars? Sometimes, 
as he lay on his soft pillow before the fire, he won¬ 
dered if nine hundred dollars had anything to do with 
a tail or legs, or some other part of a puppy he had 
never heard discussed enough to recognize it. But 
Pet knew that he and nine hundred dollars were in¬ 
dissolubly connected. He had been told it too often. 

Life was a smooth, comfortable thing for the 
Airedale before that day of his first tragedy. He 
knew, too, that that was his own fault, though he 


8 


SONNY 


never got over blaming the couch for being so high. 
As he grew in strength, even on his warm milk diet 
he would race madly about the rosy room, even 
daring to half leap, half pull himself on to uphol¬ 
stered chairs and couches. He felt very proud of 
himself that day he leapt into the middle of the wide 
chaise longue. Then he felt himself slipping. The 
silken pillows were falling from beneath his feet. 
With his teeth and his gangling legs he gripped at 
them, but they would not hold. Over and over they 
went, Pet with them. He felt keenly the bump with 
which he landed in the middle of the polished floor 
where there was no cushion of any kind. Then he 
heard what he knew was his own voice yipping out 
in a tone he had never heard before, and he stopped 
a moment to wonder at the peculiar prickling in his 
throat that had brought that sound forth. But only 
for a minute, for there w T as a swish of silken skirts 
and Paula Grayson swooped down beside him to pick 
him up for cuddling. 

Then she was calling wildly for Celeste, and 
there were more cuddlings and pettings and warm 
milk until he knew that it was not such a terrible thing 
after all to tumble from a couch, as he lay in his own 
basket on his own warm pillow and licked the spot 
the hard floor had made to smart. 

Every day they went out in Paula Grayson’s smart 
little coupe. The world was bigger, then—bigger 
than Pet had ever imagined it might be. Sometimes, 
too, he saw other dogs; pups running along the 
streets, even playing in the nice, comfortable looking 
mud. Pet would look up at Paula with a whine and 


SONNY 


9 


a wag of his stump of tail and wonder why she, 
always so kind, did not understand that he, too, would 
like to run along those streets and play with those 
other dogs. It was strange how she could misunder¬ 
stand this when she was always so thoughtful. Once, 
after she had stopped the car and a man had talked 
with her and admired Pet, he heard her talking about 
nine hundred dollars. For the first time Pet begun 
to dislike nine hundred dollars. It was coming into 
his head that nine hundred dollars was somehow 
keeping him riding in a car when he wanted to rush 
about and yip out his happiness at being in a world 
that was so full of joy and good things. 

Pet came to know that it was the usual thing for 
men to stop Paula Grayson to talk to her when she 
was out driving. Men, it seemed, played an im¬ 
portant part in her life. They were always in the 
big Grayson drawing-room those times the pup was 
allowed to be brought down from Paula’s boudoir for 
exhibition and to be admired. It was coming into his 
head, too, that those drawing-room men were not 
much. They seemed so small when compared with the 
other two men Pet knew—the huge father of Paula 
who always glanced at him with such a tolerant, 
amused look, somehow as if he were sorry for him— 
though why he should be Pet couldn’t imagine. Paula’s 
father had no soft pillow of rose silk on which to 
sleep; he had no maid to feed him warm milk and to 
see that he was covered up and placed in a nice warm 
place to sleep those nights his mistress was away. And 
then, the other man—the butler who carried him so 
gingerly and so with a sort of air of awe and respect 



10 


SONNY 


when he was sent to bring him down to the drawing¬ 
room. He, too, was big. Why didn’t Paula see that he 
was much more of a man than those small, well-dressed 
ones who cluttered up her drawing-room? Pet liked 
that butler. Several times he tried to tell him so, 
but the butler could not understand. Men, he de¬ 
cided, were rather stupid, after all. Not like dogs, 
who would have understood. But the butler did not 
heed his whimpers of overtures, nor even the licks of 
his tongue on the back of his hand. Pet decided 
patiently that it must be because of that handicap he 
carried somewhere about him of nine hundred 
dollars. 

There were three of her men with his mistress that 
day they went down to the great place with its 
thousands of people and red-capped black men 
bustling about, and with its noise such as the dog had 
never imagined could exist. It deafened him, while it 
bewildered, so much that he did not at first listen 
to Paula as she laughed and chatted with her friends 
who carried big bunches of flowers and armfuls of 
books and magazines, and boxes the dog knew held 
chocolates, for several times Paula had given him 
one out of just such a box. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me!’’ he heard the girl 
laugh. “I’m used to traveling alone. It’s Pet I’m 
worrying about. Oh, do you think he’ll be all right?’’ 
she added, anxiously. “I’ve tried and tried, but the 
railroad men just will not let me take him into my 
stateroom, and he’ll have to ride in the baggage car!” 
She cuddled the dog more closely in her arms, and he 
whimpered. “Seel” she cried. “He understands! 


SONNY 


11 


And he’s never been used to anything but his own 
basket and pillow, and California so far, far away!” 
Again the dog whimpered and glanced at the men 
hovering near. It was all so embarrassing. Why 
could not the girl realize that he was getting to be a 
big dog, and that he might feel a bit abashed at hav¬ 
ing it known that he must always be cuddled. But 
the men were taking it seriously. The one he had 
heard called Donald laughed as he reassured: 

“Will he be all right?” he chuckled. “Would the 
President be all right?” Pet squirmed a little as 
Donald gently tweaked his ear. “They’ll not forget 
that you’re the prize possession of Miss Paula Gray¬ 
son, will they, old chap?” he asked the dog,“—or 
that you cost nine hundred dollars?” 

There it was again. Must he go through life with 
this nine hundred dollar thing hanging over him— 
something that was so vague that he couldn’t get at 
it to alter it! 

Then there was a rush for some big black gates 
that a strange looking man in queer blue clothes 
pushed open. They were all laughing and trying to 
talk at the same time. It was all so confusing that 
Pet could not collect his thoughts until he realized 
himself being taken down a long dark platform be¬ 
side what looked like much greater automobiles than 
he had ever seen before, all fastened together and 
with other people laughing and talking and hurrying 
to get into the great cars. They came to a stop be¬ 
side a car which had a wide gaping hole in its side 
and beside which there was another man in the 
strange blue clothes like the others he had seen as he 


12 SONNY 

came down the platform. He was smiling at 
Paula. 

“Well, here you are, Miss Grayson,” he beamed. 
“Waiting for you. Now, you don’t need to worry 
about the pup—that him?” as he cast an inquiring 
glance at Pet held in the arms of his mistress. “I’m 
going to see to it myself that he’ll be all right.” But 
there was something of a twinkle in his eyes that Pet 
caught as he was transferred from Paula’s arms to 
those of the man in blue. Pet could not help but 
wonder if this big man in blue whose voice he liked 
at its first sound could have heard about that nine 
hundred dollars. He hoped not. He liked the 
touch of the big man’s hands as he patted his head. 
There was something in the touch he had not 
before known, not even when the butler had carried 
him. Pet wondered if it could be because it was a 
man’s hands, instead of the soft touch of woman’s 
that had been all he had known, outside of the strok- 
ings to which he was accustomed from all the smaller 
men who were to be found in Paula Grayson’s train. 

“You'll be fine, won’t you, boy?” the man asked the 
dog. 

“Wough!” said Pet. 

“You see,” laughed the man, “he’s trying to tell 
you so himself.” 

“Oh, I hope so!” grieved his mistress. Then, as she 
touched his head gently, the dog heard her murmur 
as she bent over him: “Now, be a good boy, and I’ll 
come to see you at every stop. You know,” and she 
looked up at the man in blue with that smile that Pet 
had come to know was so all conquering where men 


SONNY 


13 


were concerned, “you know, conductor, when I come 
back from this California trip, I'm going to enter 
him in the Piping Rock show, and he’s so sure to 
win prizes and prizes that just nothing must happen 
to him-” 

So the man’s name was Conductor. Pet was glad 
to know it. He disliked thinking of anyone merely 
indiscriminately. 

What Paula was about to say further was drowned 
in an escape of steam. 

“Oh, we must hurry!” she cried. “Good-by, 

Pet-” And she was gone with a wave of her 

snowy handkerchief that the dog knew perfumed the 
air through which it was waved. 

Then it was that Pet knew the first real indignity 
of his life. He had thought that life could hold 
nothing more humiliating than when Paula had first 
clasped about his neck the obnoxious collar which 
irked him so. But there was worse to come. Gently, 
despite his wrigglings, the man carried him through 
the yawning hole in the side of the car. Once inside 
he was on his feet on a floor that had neither rugs nor 
carpet, nor even a pillow in sight. Just rough looking 
box-like things that he heard called trunks as others 
were dumped into the car with a bang by other men 
in queer clothes. From his pocket the man called 
Conductor took a long thick string-like looking thing 
that he fastened to Pet’s collar, and the other end 
to the side of the wall. Longingly Pet looked into 
the man’s eyes. Surely he must realize that this was 
too much! Too much for a dog like himself who 
had known no restraint anywhere. He must under- 




14 


SONNY 


stand! But the whimper that rose in his throat 
apparently conveyed no meaning to the man, for with 
a final pat on the dog’s head and a “Be good, old 
boy, until I see you,’’ he turned to go. Outside he 
heard him calling to someone. 

“Watch out for that dog now, Joe.” There was a 
tone of command in his voice that Pet knew he would 
have obeyed himself, had an order been given to him. 
This Conductor must be someone of almost as great 
importance as Paula herself. Long he looked at the 
restraining leash, trying to understand it. Of one 
thing he was sure, though. Whatever the reason, 
it could not be for long. She had said she would 
come back soon, and he knew she would. 

Philosophically, he decided to make the best of it. 
He curled up on a space of floor beside one of the 
trunks, and after all the excitement and exhaustion of 
getting away would have gone to sleep had he not 
been rudely roused by the banging of the big doors 
in the side of the car, the shriek of a whistle from 
somewhere nearby that was terrifying enough for 
any dog who had never heard one, and then the con¬ 
sciousness that the car was moving under him. They 
were taking him away—away from Paula and she 
could not come back! He leaped to his feet and pulled 
his body the full length of his leash in a wild dash for 
freedom and with a howl of protest. 

“Lay down, there, you!” growled a strange 
voice from somewhere out of his sight. A voice that 
Pet did not like, but which he decided to obey for this 
one time. 

So, trembling at the strangeness of it all, 


SONNY 


15 


wondering, indignant, too, Pet, the nine hundred 
dollar prize dog of a prize beauty—Pet, who knew 
only luxury and gentleness, started on his long, long 
ride across the continent. 


V, 


CHAPTER II 


T EN MILE, out on the edge of the great white 
desert of sand and heat, toward which the 
passengers of the Limited, utterly oblivious of 
its existence, were being rushed at best express train 
speed, was used to being ignored by most of the 
world. There were those who sneeringly remarked 
that there would be no Ten Mile at all were it not 
that sometimes a great train was compelled to stop 
there for water or despatches and that somebody 
had flung up the shack of a station so passengers 
looking out and wondering at the stop would not feel 
they were lost or being held up by bandits. 

Almost flush on the edge of the desert it stood, 
if its crazily leaning board shacks could be said to 
stand—the great desert merely skirted by those great 
trains with their pampered passengers lolling on com¬ 
fortable cushions and trying to stave off the heat with 
iced drinks passed about by a grinning white-coated 
porter. It is that way with the desert. Those only 
dare is dangers who have the daring not to skirt, who, 
to gain the green of the foothills with their hidden 
secrets of metals beyond would give life itself in the 
conquest; or, those who seek it as a haven when 
greater danger threatens from their fellow men. 

There were trees to be seen in the distance from 
Ten Mile, trees that climbed the mountains along the 
horizon far from the sage brush, but there were none 
in Ten Mile. Its sandy road dignified by the name of 

16 



SONNY 


17 


street ran straight between the shacks huddled on 
either side and out to the edge of the desert stretching 
as far as eye could see. Besides the railroad station, 
there were, of course, those buildings which had once 
been saloons. More of them than anything else, but 
all serving different purposes in such days as these. 
Dance and refreshment halls, most of them were 
called by courtesy, but there was none too curious as 
to the sort of refreshment that was to be obtained. 
Wherein Ten Mile was not so vastly different from 
the rest of the country of which it was a small part. 
Ten Mile was not chosen as a place of abode save 
by those who had long since given up all hope of 
successful prospecting and, either too ashamed to go 
back from whence they had come, or hopeless, 
had drifted into a community of their own, 
secure in the knowledge that there would always be 
enough of its kind to eat from some grubstaker or 
other, and that work need not be done. 

The station, of course, was a rendezvous on those 
rare times when it became known a train would stop. 
For the occasional message which held up one of the 
transcontinental trains was always one of the most 
important things in the one-legged station master and 
despatcher’s life, and he advertised it as far as he 
could in what time he had. But there were other 
assembly places. The “refreshment halls,” nightly 
filled by prospectors who rode in from the foothills 
—and the post-office. For longer than most of the 
rambling inhabitants of Ten Mile could remember, 
the post-office had been ruled over by Zachariah 
Tuttle, “Old Man Tuttle” he had come to be called, 
and it was there, according to the best ethics of 
the long-forgotten New England village from which 


18 


SONNY 


he had once come, that Old Man Tuttle had gathered 
about him a sort of desert salon, a lounging place 
where everyone dropped in at some time of day or 
night bent on hearing the latest news, of forming or 
reforming the nation’s politics or merely purchasing 
a tin of black tobacco or a stick or two of licorice 
from the old man’s meager supplies that occupied a 
shelf opposite the few small boxes of the “Post-office.” 

Sheriff Bill Norton recrossed his heavily cowhided 
legs for the fourth or fifth time, and spat toward the 
sand-filled box as he tiptilted his chair before he 
reiterated, with a wise nod of his head: 

“Nussir, what I’m tellin’ you is that it would be 
nowise healthy for that there Eastern jasper to hit 
these parts without a guard of state police while Dave 
Deering’s in the state of mind he is. Nussir!” 

Old Man Tuttle chuckled and his toothless grin 
emphasized his words. 

“Wal, I’m not allowin’ Dave hain’t pro’bly the; 
best shot in these here parts,” he retorted. “What 
I’m sayin’ is effen he’s so almighty clever, why did he 
let that Eastener come right up and take away his 
mine like he was takin’ a piece of pep’mint candy 
from a child.” 

“Hmmph!” Lem Crowder hunched his big bulk 
toward the door as he spoke. “I’m like the sheriff 
here. I, for one, ain’t hankerin’ to kid Dave 
none—nuther would you be effen you’d seed the glum 
way he jest turned out of the White Eagle, and said 
nuthin’ when some of the boys started to kid him, 
but what he was thinkin’ was a lot, I’ll tell the world.” 

“Pshaw, I ain’t afeered of Dave Deering and his 
gun none,” was the little old postmaster’s boast. 
“Come I want to say suthin’, I ’low there hain’t no 


SONNY 


19 


gunman near this here desert’s going to stop me 
none-” 

A laugh sounded from the sheriff’s throat as he, 
too, rose, and with a yawn and a stretch of his big wide 
arms started for the door. “I reckon you’re goin’ to 
have the chance, Zach,” he announced, “for if I don’t 
mistake, that’s Dave down at that hitchin’ post now, 
tethering Pete. Bound here most like, to see if they’s 
more news. Sorry I can’t stay to see the fun, but I 
got to be gittin’ down to the jail—got a couple of 
drunks’ll be gittin’ lonely.” 

The sheriff grinned at the glum face of the mart 
discussed as he passed him on his way out. Had it 
not been for that glumness and the discontent so 
plainly written on it, his would have been a handsome 
face, with its high forehead, the slightly curved bridge 
of a nose that showed breeding from some generation 
not so far removed, the black hair flung back from 
forehead, and eyes, keenly gray and with the look 
that is only in the eyes of a man accustomed to look¬ 
ing far into distances, like those of a seafaring man 
or the desert or wide prairie haunter. The nod he 
gave Sheriff Norton as he flung into the little post- 
office was barely perceptible. 

But it did not worry the sheriff. His grin showed 
more plainly and he shot out from the corner of his 
mouth to the man who had followed him from the 
haunt of Old Man Tuttle: “Not a pleasant-looking 
customer, hey? Takin’ it purty hard, eh?” 

Not a soul in Ten Mile or for miles thereabouts 
but knew the reason for Dave Deering’s ill humor— 
Dave, who, up to a few weeks before had ever been 
the life of any gathering where he chose to offer his 
welcome presence; Dave Deering, known far and 



20 


SONNY 


wide as a friend who was a friend, who could always 
be depended on for a grub stake, who asked no ques¬ 
tions, any more than he asked favors. There had 
been only one trouble about Dave. Friend or no 
friend, ever since coming to Ten Mile, or its foot¬ 
hills, rather, he had chosen to play a lone hand in his 
work. Always he had prospected alone. Always 
he had refused partnership, though never had he re¬ 
fused a lift to anyone. Perhaps it was this insistence 
upon staying away from partners that brought all 
the gloating when Dave’s tragedy came. For Dave 
had at length hit good pay dirt, and he had not been 
backward w T ith his own gloating, nor with his boasts 
through Ten Mile as to his intentions when he should 
sell his mine. And then, just as though he had been 
the rawest tenderfoot, a mine owner from the East, 
smarter in the ways of the world than the trusting 
Dave had been, came along and through some chican¬ 
ery or other had taken away all that Dave Deering 
had. So much, that it meant beginning all over again 
for Dave—a going back to the heartbreaking task of 
more years of prospecting without even the joyous 
hope that had buoyed him in his first search. 

Dave Deering, when he swung through the 
squeaky front door of Postmaster Tuttle’s strong¬ 
hold, was broke. Dave Deering was not happy 
about it. As anyone a little more discerning or 
possessed of a little more diplomacy than Old Mart 
Tuttle should have known. 

The old chap greeted him with his toothless grin, 
while his sole remaining guest lolled back on his 
cracker box 

“Hee! Hee!” he chortled. “And ef it hain’t thq 


SONNY 


21 


lawyer! Wal! Wal! And how many cases did we 
win to-day?” 

Perhaps it may have been partly Dave’s own fault 
in having given away his life’s secret to take up the 
study of law on the proceeds of that lost mine; per¬ 
haps it was because Postmaster Tuttle did not know 
that Dave had been goaded with that same jibe a 
dozen times since he had hit town. However it 
was, Old Man Tuttle was in no wise prepared 
for the storm he roused. Into the gray eyes of Dave 
Deering there gathered first a mist, then as though a 
bolt of lightning burst through the storm of his brain, 
they flashed a fire that made the old man un¬ 
consciously cringe. One step Dave took toward him. 
When he spoke, his voice trembled with wrath. 

“You! Zach Tuttle!” He bit each word. His 
hand went to his hip in an unmistakable gesture. “If 
you, you crab, or any other man in this town,” and 
the blue gun came out of its holster and emphasized 
his statement, “ever says another word about that 
mine, somebody’s going to pay for it! You get me!” 
Each word, coldly cut as though spoken through art 
ice mask, was unmistakable. 

Cringing, the old postmaster, backing toward the 
protection of the back room where he slept, whined 
out his protest. 

“Aw, Dave, I ’didn’t mean nothin’,” he begged. 
“You put that gun away, or I’ll tell the sheriff you’re 
up here a-threatenin’ me!” 

As slowly as it had been taken from its holster, the 
gun was dropped back. Dave sneered. It was a 
nasty rasp. 

“No need,” he grated. “Prob’ly I should do some 
tellin’ myself—somebody hereabouts was givin’ some 


22 


SONNY 


dope before that jasper got my mine. But what I’m 
sayin’s this—if any of you birds in Ten Mile talk 
about me or my mine from now on, or about me 
havin’ to git back to prospectin’, there’s goin’ to be 
diggin’ in that new graveyard out there—there’s goin’ 
to be.” 

To hide the rage that was still tearing him, the 
big man turned out through the door into the sandy 
street that was becoming only a graying ribbon in the 
quick dropping twilight. But even as he went, he was 
stricken with a remorse for his childish action. Why 
in time, he argued, had he threatened Old Man 
Tuttle, of all the people in Ten Mile? It must have 
been because the old man’s taunt was the last straw. 
Of course, he hadn’t ever intended to harm the old 
chap, but sometimes it seemed to Dave that gun talk 
was the only kind of talk those men in Ten Mile 
could understand. Anyway, he thought, the post¬ 
master was the town’s best gossip, and there wouldn’t 
be any doubt of his spreading the news as to Dave’s 
real feelings in the matter. Perhaps it was all for 
the best, and he wouldn’t be bothered much more. 
Not that it made any great difference—he was getting 
calmer—for he didn’t intend to be much around Ten 
Mile any more. There was too much to be done. 
The work of years had to be started over; a man 
paupered must start at the bottom for more years of 
gruelling work, and disappointments and hardships, 
maybe, in the end, if success should again come—and 
he smiled bitterly at the thought—further to enrich 
another capitalist sitting in a comfortable chair before 
a roll-top desk. 

And there was another thing. What he had said 
was true. Someone had given information. Why 


SONNY 


23 


might it not have been old Tuttle? He would not 
put it beyond him. If so, he had at least paid him 
back in part. To hell with them all! 

The dim line of the foothills where lay his destina¬ 
tion could barely be seen in the distance as he 
reached his tethered horse that greeted him with a 
whinny. He patted the head of the animal and 
looked into his understanding eyes. 

“You’re a pal, all right, anyway, ain’t you, old 
feller?’’ he asked. “Jest you and me, Pete—you 
and me!” 

Back in the dimly lighted post-office as Dave 
Deering rode out into the evening dusk, Old Man 
Tuttle still shivered. His voice quavered as he put 
out a hand to steady himself, as he appealed in his 
high squeak to little Bart Taylor who had been a 
silent spectator, himself crouched as far away from 
danger as the limits of space between the cracker box 
and the wall would permit. 

“You saw him, Bart?’’ he asked. “You heard 
him? Intimidatin’ me!” A glance through the door 
showed him a horse far up the street. Some of his 
bravado came back. “Humph!” he boasted. 
“Mebbe you thought I was skeered because Dave 
Deerin’s the best shot hereabouts, but ef I had had 
my gun! Anyways, you wuz a witness, and when I 
tell the sheriff you’ll know what to say.” 

“Umph-hmph.” Small Bart was noncommittal. 
It was no part of Bart’s philosophy to tempt 
Providence, and he, at least, had a wholesome respect 
for Dave’s wishes since hearing them couched as they 
had been. And after his look into the big man’s eyes 
he hesitated to boast that he cared nothing for the 
man who was rated the best shot in the country. 


24 


SONNY 


It was at Chicago that Paula Grayson was joined 
by her aunt, the sedate and exclusive Mrs. Gregory 
van Dusen. In bouyant spirits, the girl made the 
trip across the city with her dog snuggled beside her 
in the taxi, but those spirits were dampened when she 
found her aunt ready to board the Limited with her 
in response to a telegram from Jonathan Grayson. 
There were several reasons for the drooping spirits. 
In the first place, Paula Grayson had always been a 
young lady who had known as law only her own sweet 
will. That this occasionally led her to break some 
of the social twenty-two-or-three commandments, was 
a matter of supreme indifference to her, as it had 
ever been with her indulgent father, who believed in 
allowing the girl to do as she chose, providing she 
chose to do nothing that would seriously injure her in 
any way. Like his daughter, Jonathan Grayson be¬ 
lieved in having his will, and the reputation he had 
gained in the Street for ruthlessness may have been 
as much the result of this as any love of power or 
wealth. 

A like inclination had made Mrs. van Dusen one 
of those few who sat in the seats of the mighty in 
Chicago society—which she spelled at home always 
with a capital letter. She had come therefore to be¬ 
lieve herself or anyone connected with that august self 
so far above any common or sometimes uncommon 
herd, that she had elevated herself to a rarefied 
atmosphere that chilled even those who came nearest 
in contact with her. 

Her brother’s daughter was a trial to her. And 
when she learned that Paula actually was attempting 
to go clear across the continent unchaperoned, there 
rose up in her the righteous feeling that she must do 


SONNY 


25 


her duty, even though by so doing she must leave her 
chosen familiars right in the midst of one of the most 
brilliant social seasons she ever had directed. So, 
with a thousand sighs, she laid down her scepter, and 
gave orders over night to pack her trunks. She 
hoped Chicago society might get on without her but 
she doubted it. 

The thought of all this grandeur was not calculated 
to add greatly to the pleasure of Paula Grayson’s 
trip, the trip she was beginning so to enjoy before 
she watched her stately aunt guided up the aisle and 
into her stateroom. For just a moment, Paula made 
a little moue in the long stateroom glass, a movement 
which she swiftly checked into what semblance of a 
smile of welcome she could concoct. But she muttered 
to herself as she watched the stately figure, like the 
ship with all sails set to which she had likened her 
aunt since childhood. 

“In for a pleasant social trip—and much censoring, 
Paula, my girl! Now do try to be a lady, and re¬ 
member she’s your own dear aunt.” 

But even as she ruminated, she was remembering 
with an inward mischievous grin a conversation she 
and her father had once had about Aunt Alice. 

“I wonder,” Paula had complained after a 
dinner party at her own home where her aunt was 
a guest and to which some brilliant young acquaint¬ 
ances of her own had been invited, only to be looked 
through and through as though they were only 
wraiths at the feast by the determined aunt, whether 
Aunt Alice would consider meeting mere prime 
ministers or presidents or editors or any such riff¬ 
raff if they could not show pedigrees miles long!” 


/ 


26 


SONNY 


To which her father, sage as always, had 
admonished : 

“You must know, my dear, that your aunt is one 
of the right kind of people. And of course she could 
neither know or be known by the unpedigreed.” 
Paula laughed as she remembered the twinkle 
behind her father’s glasses and the dryness of his 
tone. “And,” he had added, “you will come to know 
when you know your aunt better that it is one of the 
characteristics of the right kind of people not to be 
known by the wrong kind of people.” 

That had been that. Aunt Alice had gone back 
to Chicago bewailing the fact that her niece was 
unchaperoned at a period of her life so crucial, 
but Paula had breathed a sigh of relief. A 
sigh vastly different from the one that escaped her as 
her aunt entered the stateroom and with a wave of 
her hand disposed of the baggage-carrying porters. 

“How lovely of you, Aunt Alice,” breathed the 
girl. “And such a surprise!” 

Aunt Alice took the time to lift her lorgnette to 
survey her niece before answering. 

“One might almost believe that you meant it, 
Paula,” she commented. “But I do say that no one 
ever accused me of shirking my duty and when one’s 
own brother’s daughter is allowed to run wild and 
to start off on a perfectly preposterous trip across the 
continent alone, then there could be only one thing for 
one to do, no matter how inconvenient. I suppose 
if I had stayed quietly in Chicago and allowed you 
to run off to the West alone, the first thing I 
might expect would be to hear of you streak¬ 
ing off through the desert with some wild cowboy or 


SONNY 27 

other, or whatever they call those men who wear the 
peculiar woolly trousers-” 

“How perfectly lovely!” breathed Paula as her 
aunt paused for breath, and allowed the niece to help 
her in removing her voluminous veils. “It’s a 
wonderful suggestion, and to think I hadn’t even 
thought of it.” 

Mrs. van Dusen sniffed, if the peculiar noise she 
made could, in so utterly correct a personage, be 
characterized as a sniff. 

“Or starting a cow ranch or some other sort of a 
menagerie,” went on the aunt when she had caught 
her breath. 

Paula dimpled. 

“I have one started already—up in the car ahead,” 
she informed. “A prize Airedale, and-” 

“And I suppose you’ve been consorting with all 
manner of persons in an effort to keep in touch with 
him, eh?” 

Paula’s laugh was her only retort, but it was not 
the usual happy laugh. She had found it such fun 
to make friends with everyone connected with the 
train service with whom she had come in contact 
and the conductor on the New York train who had 
taken her to see her pet was such a dear. Probably 
there would be an end to such further journeys un¬ 
less she could find a way. She heard her aunt still 
talking. 

“Please ring for tea, my dear,” she was saying. 
“I’m terrifyingly tired, and I know it’s going to be 
a beastly trip, so I’m going to fortify myself.” 

“Perfectly beastly,” murmured Paula under her 
breath as her tapering pink-tipped fingers reached for 
the bell in the mahogany wall. 




28 


SONNY 


Which prediction Paula found well justified in the 
two days that followed. It was not often that Mrs. 
van Dusen had such uninterrupted opportunity for 
admonishing her incorrigible niece and she lost 
no advantage. Over and again Paula heard of her 
own shortcomings and listened to laudations of the 
“right” people. 

The afternoon of the second day—one of the 
longest she had ever known in her life, Paula was 
sure—was drawing to a close. From her seat, doz¬ 
ing, Mrs. van Dusen awoke every once in a while to 
expound some new thought which had occurred to 
her. Paula, listless, inattentive, bored to extinction, 
gazed out of the window as if the monotonous never- 
ending plateaus of sage brush held an interest of 
which she could never tire. But just then she was 
thinking neither of sage brush nor of her aunt’s 
monologue. Her thoughts were several cars ahead 
with the Airedale she had not seen since morning, 
thanks to her aunt’s complaints. How sad he had 
looked when she watched him being given his break¬ 
fast. What reproach there had been in his eyes. Oh, 
she would make it up to him some way—she must. 
He who had never known anything but gentleness and 
softness—were they treating him kindly? Vaguely 
her aunt’s remarks came to her ears. 

“As I was telling you, my dear, there are so many 
of your acquaintances; call them literary, musical, 
what you will—perhaps they may have brains of a 
sort—but still they are not well bred. Now good 
breeding-” 

Paula turned from the car window with a start. 
There was a touch of rancor in her voice as she 
spoke: 



SONNY 


29 


“I think the only two really well-bred people I ever 
knew, Aunt Alice,” she asserted with asperity, “of 
course excepting you and dad, were a Turk I once 
knew—an antique dealer, if you please—and a 
washerwoman.” 

“Paula!” Mrs. van Dusen fairly gasped. “You 
are hopeless! No wonder you are driving your 
family distracted with such notions—you are driving 
me so, anyway. I’ve always been unable to see your 
father’s attitude where you were concerned. But 
with such ideas I wouldn’t be in the least surprised 
to hear of your marrying one of those writer fellows. 
Or even a tradesman, or-” 

“Perhaps I might,” agreed Paula with a grim set 
of her lips, “—if he were sufficiently a man—and 
didn’t bore me-” 

“Bore you! Bore you! That’s all you ever think 
about! That, I believe, was your excuse for cutting 
your own debut party short when the whole Junior 
League and all the best boys I knew were there and 
cutting off down to that horrid settlement place on 
the East Side where you danced for the entertainment 
of a lot of rabble-” 

“Ann Leroy was a chum of mine in school,” de¬ 
fended Paula, “and if she can give up the best years 
of her life to entertain and make happy the lives of 
those you choose to call rabble, then I at least can 
entertain them one night. Besides, that old party did 
bore me-” 

“And that time you took Sidney Graymore’s car 
away from him and drove all the way across Long 
Island alone-” 

“He was too fresh!” Paula’s nose went up into 
the air. “He bored me, too, and I had a great time 







30 


SONNY 


—talked to all the traffic men along the way 
and-” 

Mrs. van Dusen’s voice was stern. 

“Sidney Graymore is a right person, and if you call 
a gentleman’s marriage proposal fresh-” 

“Well, wouldn’t it bore you?’’ Paula grinned 
wickedly as her mind gave her the picture of the 
foppish Sidney proposing marriage to this perfectly 
proper aunt. “When I want a man to propose to 
me, I want him at least to bear some of the character¬ 
istics of a man, and I must say that few of your 
acolytes do for me-” 

Mrs. van Dusen’s eyes drooped as though she were 
too utterly tired for argument. 

“Then all I can say,” she pronounced sarcastically, 
“is that I do hope you will not meet any moving- 
picture heroes out here in the West. And I think I 
can promise,” and the eyes opened to fix her niece 
sternly, “that I may have something to say in that 
matter.” 

Paula was not listening. Her mind was again on 
the small dog in the car ahead. A sign-board caught 
her attention. Her voice rippled out gaily. 

“Oh, we’re almost to Ten Mile!” she cried. “The 
conductor told me that we should stop there for 
despatches, and that there would probably be time 
for me to see Pet!” 

“Paula Grayson!” Her aunt’s voice was stern and 
cold. “There has been quite enough of this hopping 
on and off trains. Understand, you are not to go. 
When we reach a stop where it will be possible for 
me to go with you, then you may go to see that dog, 
but not before.” 

Again Paula turned to the window to look out with 





SONNY 


31 


unseeing eyes at the sage brush, while a tear gathered 
in her eye. 

“My dog! My dog!” she repeated with 
soundless lips. 


I 


CHAPTER III 


pHE dog cowered on the floor, then staggered 
to his weak puppy legs. He could not under¬ 
stand the pain, and that made it worse. 

Once before in his short life had pain, much that 
same sort of pain, burned inside of him. There in 
the darkness of the car, and with the jarring, jarring, 
under him—the jarring that was so unlike the feel 
of the town car in which he had always taken his 
outings with Paula, he was—well, who shall say he 
was not thinking? He was remembering, at any 
rate. And his half-formed memory was taking him 
back to that other tragedy of his life; that time when 
his shaky legs had not held his woolly body on the 
soft, treacherous cushions of the couch, and they had 
slipped from under him with such tragic consequences. 
He remembered back still farther. How wonderful 
had felt the softness of the cushions into which his 
feet had sunk, just as they had into that other soft¬ 
ness on the floor which he had known was for the 
feet of the girl who was so kind to him and who 
called him “Pet” in spite of his attempt to tell her 
of his dislike of the name—he who was a prize Aire¬ 
dale; he, the son of Champion MacAllister II. For 
had he not heard the man who fed his mother tell the 
girl he was that day she had come for him and carried 
him, protesting, from the warmth of his mother to 
the warmth of her own silken boudoir cushions. 

But she had been gone such a long time, that day 

32 


SONNY 


33 


of his downfall. Both she and Celeste. And he was 
lonely. It had been difficult for a pup to play so 
long alone even with such alluring objects as the 
silken rugs and cushions and pink and blue slippers 
that were in that rosy-hued room. He had had a 
vague hope that if he could leap to the top of that 
chaise longue perhaps he might find the girl whose 
scent hung everywhere so heavy in the air. Then 
had come the slip and the horrible shock, followed by 
the feeling that he would never again want any of the 
warm milk they always brought him when he was 
hungry. Perhaps he might not ever see them again. 
He remembered, too, how his voice had sounded 
when he had tried to call her. He wanted to call her 
again—now—in the same way—but he knew that 
there was a reason that he mustn’t. It had been 
borne in on him in no gentle fashion. 

Then, when he had called, the girl had come 
running. She had picked him up in her arms and 
put him in his pillowed basket. Something warm and 
sticky had been forced down his throat. Then he had 
slept, there in front of the sparkly fire with its 
woodsy smell that he had found so agreeable, 
even more so than the perfume that permeated every 
niche of the beautiful room. When he waked, the 
pillow was soft once more and all the world was 
right again. 

But here there was no pillow; only the boards that 
hurt when he lay down and made it so hard for him 
to stand up without falling. In his ears was the 
continuous roar that had been in them ever since he 
had been chained beside the big trunk after that 
short trip in the taxi with the girl he didn’t want to 
leave. Hours of torture had come before he under- 


34 


SONNY 


stood that the jerky throbs came from wheels under 
the boards—such strange, different wheels. 

He slunk behind the trunk, wabbling pitifully on his 
shaky legs. It was dark behind there, and the big 
thing lurched frightfully over him. There were 
worse things, though, on this new train. On the first 
though some of the men had been gruff, altogether it 
had not been so bad. Here, there were other men 
he did not know—one man, especially—they called 
him Dan—Pet lifted his head quickly—Dan was 
coming down the car. Dan, whose voice was like 
no other voice the dog had ever heard. Dan, 
whose hands were rough and whose body had a 
sickening odor that was even worse than the throb¬ 
bing boards under him. Dan—who had kicked him! 

From the shadows behind the big trunk the dog 
saw Dan take a big flat bottle from behind a box. 
The dog crouched lower, and the whimper sounded 
again. He knew that bottle. It held the stuff which 
gave Dan’s body the horrible smell. Before the flat 
bottle had come Dan had at least kept the water pan 
filled. Now it had been empty for hours. 

The trunk shifted suddenly, and with a whine of 
fright the dog scuttled out to the length of his chain. 
Then his legs doubled up, and he went down on his 
side, whimpering his calls for the girl and the soft 
pillow. They had always been near when he had 
hurt himself before. 

“Aw, shut up!” The brakeman turned with the 
flat bottle still in his hand. “Cut it, you mangy curl” 

The dog slunk back into his shadows. The animal 
had never heard those words before, but he under¬ 
stood the tone. 

After a little he stole to the edge of the dark- 


SONNY 


35 


ness behind the trunk and watched. Dan was hiding 
the bottle, and he swung around toward the door at 
the other end of the baggage car. The dog turned, 
too, for he sensed the presence of the man he had 
heard the girl call conductor, but whom the men who 
came and went called “Con”—Con, the big man who 
wore the same kind of clothes as Dan and who had 
told the girl he would care for her dog. Always he 
stopped to pat the dog’s head just as had the other 
man whose name had been Conductor—the first man 
in the blue clothes on the other train. 

The dog crawled boldly into the light. Per¬ 
haps if he told this man how hurt he was things would 
be fixed. He whined, and lifted his head so Con 
could see that he was asking for something. But the 
man paid no attention. He went straight to Dan, 
and when he spoke the tone was one the dog had not 
known him to use before. 

“Hittin’ it up again, eh?” The words sounded 
something like the snap of a long whip that Pet 
had once seen in the hands of a truck driver. “You 
keep straight this trip!” went on the Con person. 
“We’re stopping at Ten Mile for despatch flimsy, and 
you keep that flag down the rear. There’s a work 
car somewhere on the division, and I don’t w T ant a 
smash-up.” 

“HI do my part!” Dan growled, and the tone 
made the dog whine again. The dog had heard Dan 
use that tone when his rough hands had dragged him 
from behind the trunk and kicked him because he 
couldn’t drink his milk. 

Con turned suddenly. He had heard for the first 
time. The dog crawled toward him on his belly, 
tongue ready to lick the hand that would lie kindly on 


36 


SONNY 


his head. But the man did not bend down to pat him. 
He whirled on Dan. 

“Where’s this dog’s water?” he snapped. 

“He just spilled it.” 

Crawling forward, the dog felt his collar pull at 
the chain and stop him. He lifted his head once 
more for the pat, and this time it came. The hand of 
the conductor rested on his back, then stroked his 
sides. The fingers touched the sore spot that had 
hurt ever since Dan’s boot had slammed him against 
the side of the car. 

The conductor pulled the dog’s body around to the 
light, and his hand gently brushed back the wooly 
hair. Then came an oath that made the animal 
cower. 

“What you been doin’ to this dog?” The con¬ 
ductor was on his feet. “Don’t you know this is Miss 
Paula Grayson’s prize Airedale? He’s insured for a 
thousand that the road stands a chance to lose if he’s 
hurt. And old man Grayson, the mining man, owns a 
pretty big slice of this road. You’ve been abusing 
him! You’ll quit at the end of the run! Get him a 
pan of fresh water!” 

Even as he talked he was getting a coat from a nail 
in the wall and laying it on the floor. He lifted the 
dog gently to the pad, and it seemed very like the soft 
pillow. The dog saw Dan get a basin of water. He 
wondered why Dan should do what the conductor 
asked when he showed his hate so plainly. He 
understood vaguely that there had been something in 
the sharp, harsh tone of the conductor that even a 
man like Dan couldn’t refuse to obey. It was a 
command! For the first time in his life the dog was 
beginning to know from the men named Conductor 


SONNY 


37 


what that meant. His tongue touched the hand 
of the conductor in a dumb, significant sort of 
reverence. 

The authoritative one swung around to face the 
brakeman. 

“You dirty cur that can’t treat a clean dog white! 
If you touch a hair on his body again, I’ll have your 
hide!” 

The water was cool, and it made easier the hurts 
inside the dog. The coat was soft, too. He lifted 
his head and voice, and the whimper was all gone. 
Some of the old joyous bark came back. And the 
hand of the conductor rested on his back to reward 
him. 

“It’s a shame you’re only a woman’s dog, kid,” 
he said fondly. “You’d make a good pal for any 
man.” 

There was something in the words and the tone of 
them that put a new feeling into the heart of the dog. 

“Open the door and let him have some fresh air!” 
commanded the pup’s friend. Dan obeyed sullenly, 
glowering at the back of the conductor as he left the 
car. 

The dog, having drunk his fill of the soothing 
water, laid down on the coat. The cool wind that 
blew through the open door eased all the pains. His 
eyes closed, and for the first time in days he thought 
he was once more on his soft pillow. 

A hurt that leaped and burned in every part of his 
body brought him to his feet almost before his eyes 
opened. He saw the snarling face of Dan over him. 

“Got me broke, eh?” The words came grittingly, 
and the animal cowered before the heavy shoe that 
was raised for a second kick. It struck, and seemed 


38 SONNY 

to drive all his body into a shapeless lump of raging 
fire. 

“You mangy cur!” Again the heavy boot landed 
and drove him against the trunk. “Killin’ the best 
graft I ever had! But before I go you’ll get yours! 
Fire me at the end of the run, eh?” He turned to 
shake his fist at the door through which the conductor 
had passed. “Fat chance! I’ll drop off at Ten Mile. 
I got friends there.” 

The puppy tried to get back of the trunk. A jerk 
of his collar brought him around. He heard the 
snap of the buckle in the ring at the side of the car. 
Then something hissed through the air and seemed 
to cut him in two. 

“You mangy cur! You’ll get yours before I go!” 

The leash, with its sharp buckle, cut and ripped 
into his back as it swept down. He felt something 
warm and wet trickle over him, and to his nostrils 
came a new smell; a smell that seemed to drive him 
crazy with its pungent odor. Something jumped in 
his brain. Coming back through the ages, from 
where he did not know nor care, came a new word, 
a new thought. It was blood he was smelling. His 
own blood! 

“You mangy cur!” 

Dan’s teeth were bar;ed. They looked like fangs, 
like- 

With the show of those teeth had started the 
rumbling inside of him that made the strange noise 
that issued from his throat. He felt his lips draw 
back. He dodged the sweeping lash of chain. He 
had smelled blood. He had seen bared teeth. 

He leaped! 

Something new was between his jaws. It was 



SONNY 


39 


utterly unlike the warm milk; wholly different from 
the soft cushion at which he had bitten so many times 
in play. It was something that hurt his mouth and 
smelled terribly. But there was a pull, a twist, a hurt 
that tingled all over him in a new, delirious joy. 
There was something between his teeth that gave 
under their pressure. It was flesh —flesh that he 
could grip and tear! 

Over him he heard curses of pain and rage. He 
felt his whole body swing through the air. But his 
teeth held. The leash descended, and his teeth 
gripped the harder. It was teeth! And there was 
flesh between them—the flesh of an enemy! 

“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” He 
heard the words over and over. But they brought 
no thought of whine or cower to the dog’s heart. It 
was Dan who whined. It was Dan who tried vainly 
to shake him off. 

Suddenly he felt a ripping. He felt himself letting 
go. He tried to get a new grip, but it was no use. 
He was going—going—going- 

“I hope the wheels grind you to sausage!” 

Through the open door. Whirling! The whole 
earth was going around in a great dizzy circle. 
There was nothing under his feet. Then came the 
shock. It seemed to grind and pound him to flatness. 
He rolled over and over. Stinging things drove into 
his wounds. Then he lay still on the desert’s edge. 
Down the track that stretched to the westward the 
train came to a stop. A man leaped from the rear 
platform and scurried into the sage away from 
the rude shacks of the town. Another man swung 
off forward, gripped a sheet of yellow paper 
thrust at him, and waved his hand. The train 




40 


SONNY 


started; gathered momentum, became a speck in the 
distance; a trail of smoke hanging low in the breath¬ 
less air. In the north a great buzzard swooped lazily 
downward. 

From the window of her stateroom, a girl watched 
the action of the man with the despatch with eyes 
that hands shaded against the glass. She sighed as 
the train once more started as though it had only 
half hesitated. Slyly she glanced at the sleeping 
woman bolt upright in the most proper manner on 
her own car cushions, and a frown came to her face. 

“There would have been time, anyway,” she 
pouted. “The conductor would have stopped longer 

if- Never mind, Pet,” she promised whisper- 

ingly, “it will only be a short time now. I’ll be with 
you soon.” And she, too, lay back, tired with the 
hours of inaction, Paula Grayson, known to her 
friends as a tireless athlete who had been irksomely 
bound to a car seat for interminable hours. But she 
gave one glance of resentment toward the sleeping 
aunt, and a sigh for the time before that aunt’s 
appearance when she had had such joyous times 
going under the trainmen’s guidance through the 
long cars, through the sleeping cars, the smoking car 
even, those filled with tired out tourists, through the 
length of the long train to the baggage car where Pet 
rushed to meet her with his joyous puppy bark. 

But when the next stop was reached, in the dusk 
that painted all the flat country with its purples and 
dull pinks and crimsons which lent enchantment even 
to the dusty sage brush that took on eerie forms that 
the daylight never knew, Paula Grayson was not able 
to keep her promise to Pet. For the simple reason 
that Pet was not there. Conductor Pearson had 



SONNY 


41 


before him, too, one of the hardest tasks of his 
life. 

“I’ve had to tell women that their husbands were 
torn into a thousand pieces; I’ve taken the news of 
wrecks to families that must be buoyed up to greet a 
lot of mangled remains—I’ve done a lot of such 
things in my life, Bill,” mourned Con to the brake- 
man on the platform of Paula’s car when Con 
stopped there for fresh courage before breaking his 
news, “but I’m darned if I ever felt as tongue tied 
as I do this minute. If I only thought that prize rat 
of a Dan hadn’t killed him before he ran away, 

but-” He ended with a groan as he started into 

the car as the train slowed down for the station where 
they would have to make a slightly longer stop and 
where Paula Grayson was expecting to make the visit 
to her prized dog. 

He did not have to tell her in her stateroom, how¬ 
ever—was spared breaking his news before the awe¬ 
some lady before whom even the exuberant Paula 
had no word, for the door opened quickly from the 
inside and Paula herself, bright of eye, flushed, ex¬ 
pectant, brushed out with skirts flying in the only 
breeze that section knew, the breeze created by a 
moving train. 

“Here I am, Conductor,” she cried gaily. “Not 
going to waste a moment of either your or my 
valuable time, for-” 

She stopped with her sentence half completed. 
Something, perhaps her woman’s intuition, perhaps 
her swift reading of the lugubrious countenances of 
the two men before her, instantaneously told her that 
something was wrong. 

“What—what is the matter, Conductor?” The 




42 


SONNY 


words rushed over each other. “Pet—is he—has 
anything-” 

“Gone!” Conductor Pearson, glad to have the 
matter over as swiftly as possible, blurted out his in¬ 
formation in one word. 

“That damn Dan-” began the brakeman, then 

stopped, blushing furiously. “I—I beg your pardon, 
Miss, but-” 

But Paula, unnoticing the profanity, broke in 
hurriedly. 

“Oh, oh! He has stolen my dog! My Pet! Oh, 
how could he!” 

And even before the conductor himself had an 
opportunity to swing himself down as the train slowed 
for the small station, Paula Grayson had dropped 
lightly to the narrow uneven platform and was run¬ 
ning along its treacherous length toward the baggage 
car where she had last seen the dog she loved. 
One glance at the empty hook was enough. 

“Oh, he’s gone! He’s really gone!” she wailed. 
But with the one outburst of feminine weakness, she 
changed with chameleon-like swiftness. “When is 
the next train back?” she demanded of the conductor 
who had followed with hangdog meekness. He 
shook his head. 

“None that will stop here before to-morrow morn¬ 
ing, Miss Grayson, and, if you’ll pardon me-” 

“You must make one stop !’ she demanded. 

The man in blue shook his head. “Can’t be done, 
I’m afraid, Miss Grayson,” he answered apologeti¬ 
cally. “There’s a wreck on the road somewhere, too, 
and—and—your—your aunt-” 

“Da—damn my aunt!’ cried the girl, with unmis¬ 
takable vehemence. “I want my dog!” 







SONNY 


43 


The chuckling of a man in rough clothes who sat 
in a low hung desert car at the side of the platform 
caught her attention. She whirled, just as the con¬ 
ductor, inwardly writhing at the delay, sought to urge 
her to return to her car, speaking soothingly of what 
could be done. In a second she had reached the car 
and clambered in beside the man who sat at the wheel. 

“Fifty dollars if you get me away from this train 
at once!” she whispered excitedly. “Go back! Back 
toward Ten Mile!” 

For a moment the man hesitated. 

“But Ten Mile’s a good fifty miles away ’cross 
country, Miss,” he informed. 

“No matter if it’s a million!” cried 
Just go! Before they come and get me!” 

In his time Ben Steuben had helped others to get 
away from those who sought them, and he had had 
no regret in so doing, though this was the first time 
he had ever had a lovely lady entreat him to take her 
away from there. But he did not hesitate. He 
thought not of why she might be wanting to go. One 
look into her pleading eyes and the deed was done. 
Even before her last words were out of her mouth, 
the man’s foot was on the starter, the clutch thrown 
in, and with a bound the high-powered car was on its 
way with space-eating wheel turnings away from the 
train that was already on its way, for trains cannot 
wait for eloping young ladies, even though their 
fathers may own nine-tenths of the road. Once 
Paula, well started on the search that was to cover 
weeks and more adventures than her sheltered life 
had ever imagined, looked back at the momentum¬ 
gathering train. An impish grin spread over her 
features which the man with his eyes on the wheel 


the girl. “Go! 


44 


SONNY 


and the desert road ahead did not see. He laughed, 
though, at the farewell gesture she made. Nor did 
he see, as did she, he figure of the frantic elderly 
lady making wild gestures on the rear platform, and 
calling, as Paula knew she was, though she could not 
hear: “Paula! Paula Grayson! Come back here this 
moment!” 

And the perfectly appointed elderly lady was being 
soothed and comforted by a man in blue clothes—a 
man utterly out of her class. 




i 


CHAPTER IV 

T HE pain came back, and the dog knew he was 
still alive. But the whole world seemed to 
spin around him in a million jagged spots of 
black. Sharp things bit and tore him as he tried to 
move. He turned his head, and his tongue touched 
something that was sticky and warm. He licked it, 
and there was a strange pleasantness in the touch. 
He knew that if his tongue touched all of the hurts 
they would feel better. 

Then a shadow came; a big shadow that stopped 
the shooting spots and brought the world back to 
focus. The dog staggered to his feet, and from his 
bared teeth came a growl. It was pitifully weak, but 
it was a rumble of menace. 

“Well, I’m darned!’’ The dog heard the voice of 
the man who had jumped off the big shadow. There 
seemed a curious friendliness in that voice. The 
sound was very like the one the conductor’s words 
made, except that it was deeper and stronger. “A 
purp dawg! Here on the desert jus’ outside of Ten 
Mile! Now that’s plumb queer!” 

The dog stood weakly on its sprawled legs. The 
man’s voice held a strange thrill. It was the kind of 
voice that was made to command; a bigger voice 
than even his last friend Con’s had been. But the 
chain that still dangled from the collar of the dog re¬ 
minded him that men could hurt him unless he fought 
back. The growl sounded once more. His teeth 

45 


46 


SONNY 


snapped at the hand that lowered to touch him; then 
the animal’s legs went limp, and the whole world 
burned to blackness again. 

“Ha! Ha!” The strange sounds opened the 
dog’s eyes. He saw the giant standing over him 
with his hands on his hips, his mouth opened wide, 
and the noise coming from it in great volume. For 
some unknown reason the dog liked it. Why, he 
did not know. But there could be no hurt in a sound 
like that. It had the same tone as the bark of a great 
Dane he had once watched romp with other dogs. 

“A little half-dead purp dawg that’s game enough 
to bite a full-growed man!” laughed the giant 
wonderingly. 

He bent down again. This time there was no 
threatening motion of the square, queer-shaped head. 
Instead, the dog sniffed at the hand—and liked it. 

“What the-” The giant’s voice changed. 

His fingers brushed the bleeding sides of the dog, and 
they were even more gentle than those of the train¬ 
man had been. “I thought it was just the fall! But 
they beat yuh! Beat yuh with a chain an’ kicked yuh 
off’n the Limited! The buzzard meat! Damn 
’em! Damn’em!” 

The man’s curses of rage rolled out over the 
desert. The dog crawled closer to the spread feet be¬ 
side him. The booming voice made a shiver come 
inside his body; but it w r as a shiver of joy and 
recognition. This man was cursing Dan, the brake- 
man, because he had hurt the dog. In the sound of 
the voice, in the touch of the hand, and the sight of 
the huge body that loomed over him the dog recog¬ 
nized protection. It wasn’t the protection of the girl 
with the small hands and sweet voice, nor of the soft 



SONNY 


47 


pillow. It was the protection of man for dog; friend 
for friend. 

The pain of the hundred hurts was forgotten. A 
weak yelp sounded in the throat of the puppy. It grew 
stronger. His body refused to obey the brain’s com¬ 
mand to rise. But he forced it to, and rose to his 
feet. The hands touched him gently, caressingly. 

“Lord, but yuh’re a game little cuss!” muttered the 
man admiringly. “Yelpin’ out that yuh’re glad to 
see me when yuh oughta be whinin’ about the pain.” 

He stripped off his coat without rising from his 
knee, made a pad of the folds, and laid the dog gently 
upon it. 

“Guess maybe I kin fix yuh a bit easier, anyway,” 
said the big man, and, peculiarly enough, the dog 
seemed to understand. The man’s tone was a lan¬ 
guage universal. 

The dog yelped joyously, and got to his feet as the 
man rose and went over to the horse. The giant 
turned his head and saw the pup trying to scramble 
after him. 

“Lay there!” he commanded, with a gruffness that 
the animal instinctively knew was pretense. “I’m 
jus’ goin’ to get a little liniment for them cuts. Lucky 
I got a bottle against my mountain trip.” 

He turned with a big bottle. It was not flat, but 
the dog did not like the smell of it any more than he 
had of the one Dan had kept hidden behind the box. 
He drew away from it. 

“Now, boy!” admonished the big man. “Maybe 
it’ll sting for a minute, but it’ll chase all that hurt 
away. Oughta wash yuh, too, I s’pose, but yuh’ll 
have to wait till we hit the foot-hills. This is desert 
country, dawg.” 


48 


SONNY 


Hands touched the dog’s sides. Again came the 
burn of fire, and the animal whined piteously. 

“On’y a minute, dawg,” said the man softly, and 
the dumb brute understood. He lay quiet, his head 
up, and his bright eyes watching every movement of 
the hand that rubbed his sides. Then all the pain 
seemed to go. All at once. And he knew that the 
big man had taken it away in some mysterious 
fashion. The dog realized, too, that he had known 
from the first that the big man would ease the pain. 

“How’s that, dawg?” he asked, and the animal 
yelped three times in quick succession. 

Queer, roaring sounds from the big man’s throat 
answered him. 

“Said ‘Thank yuh, sir,’ plain as shootin’, didn’t 
yuh, dawg? Well! Well!” He took hold of the 
dog’s collar with his thick fingers. “Pretty nifty 
neckpiece yuh wear, son. Looks like gold. Maybe 
it’s got your name on.” 

The fingers unsnapped the buckle, while the dog 
stood still. He had never liked the collar. But he 
had tried to be patient in wearing it because the girl 
had put it there. 

“Huh!” The man spoke ruminatingly. “So your 
name’s Pet!” The dog barked once and started to 
again, but the way the friendly stranger looked down 
at him stopped it short. There was something 
strange in that look. The man threw the collar and 
chain far away from him. 

“Pet!” he snorted in disgust. “That’s a hell of a 
name for a dawg!” He looked down pityingly, and 
the puppy yelped sharply. “No is right,” nodded the 
sympathetic man and he bent down to pat the woolly 
back. A glow seemed to warm the whole body of the 


SONNY 


49 


clog. He was being thanked for having done the 
correct thing. He was being rewarded by the master. 

The big man started talking again, slowly, in the 
deep voice that sounded so like a master’s voice 
should sound. “Yuh’re a man’s dawg from now on, 
an’ yuh gotta have a man’s name. Let’s see. There’s 
Jim an’ Mike an’ Dan an’-” 

The teeth of the dog bared viciously at the sound 
of that hated name. 

The giant looked down as though he didn’t under¬ 
stand, and the hairy little bundle of hurts bared his 
teeth in a snarl to show that Dan was his enemy. 

“So yuh don’t like them names?’’ the big man 
said slowly. “Reckon maybe one of ’em did some¬ 
thin’ to yuh—maybe beat yuh, eh?” The bared teeth 
let forth a growl. The man understood! 

He pulled at the long ears of the dog fondly, and 
the animal licked his hand. 

“Yuh sure kin show them teeth, boy! Pretty he- 
dawg stuff for a poor little bum that was stealin’ a 
ride and got kicked offen the Overland. Poor little 
sonny-boy,” he commiserated. Then he stood erect 
and slapped his thigh as a happy thought came to 
him. He chuckled as he looked down at the dog. 
“And right there’s a pretty good name for a boy- 
dawg like you. Has a sort of he-man, he-dawg sound. 
Sonny! How’s that sound, son?” 

A joyous yelp answered him. The name had a 
good sound. It had a deep, meaning sound, the way 
the man said it. He remembered it, too. Knew he 
had always liked it. “Sonny” was what the big man 
back in the girl’s house—the man she called father— 
had always whispered to him whenever he had sur¬ 
reptitiously stopped to pet him when on one was 



50 


SONNY 


looking. “Good old Sonny-boy/’ the big gray man 
had always whispered. “ k Pet,’ ummph! Wouldn’t 
you just like a chance to be a he-dcg, Sonny!” The 
dog had liked it then. He remembered it now. He 
felt as though he would like to caper around at the 
recognition of the name he liked, but those hurts in 
his body, all over his body, made him lie still, merely 
snaking his body closer to the feet of the man who 
knew what a dog’s name ought to be. 

“So yuh like it?” There was a laugh in the boom¬ 
ing voice, and in the eyes that looked down at him. 
It even seemed to be in the tips of the fingers that 
were touching the dog’s head. “All right, son, we’ll 
start moseyin’ along before somebody heaves into 
sight. I ain’t lookin’ for social calls this week. Mr. 
Dave Deering, which is me, and to which I now intro¬ 
duces you, ain’t got no at-homes now’days. Not none. 
He ain’t in no humor to hear the remarks of his feller 
men, Sonny!” 

He picked up the coat on which the dog lay, and 
carried the little animal to the horse, talking all the 
while: 

“Yuh’re a unhandy kind of a package to pack on 
a pinto. But it’s gotta be done. A man can’t leave 
his pal when he’s hurt. Nussir! Keep still, else 
yuh’ll fall off while I’m gettin’ up. An’ remember if 
this hurts yuh it’s all for the best. Like that lini¬ 
ment stuff.” 

Sonny did remember “that liniment stuff.” The dig 
of the man’s arm into him as he swung into the saddle 
hurt cruelly, but the dog made no sound. If the big 
man did it, then it was all right. It was accepted 
without question. Never before had he known such 
a thing. Even many things that the girl had done he 


SONNY 


51 


r did not think were right. There was the collar, for 
instance. But now he was being hurt—and he knew it 
was all right. The big man had said so. 

For hours afterward—long hours that were hot 
when the desert sun blazed down on the sands, then 
the cool hours of gold and purple, when the foothills 
made the traveling slower—the dog felt a thousand 
jumping aches that made him want to scream out with 
pain. Sometimes the black spots stayed before 
his eyes and shut everything else from them. 

When the blackness came, and he could not hold 
his jaws tight, a whimper escaped. Then the voice of 
the big man sounded, deep, gentle, with a caress in 
the words that felt as soothing as the big hand when 
it rested on his back. And there was always the feel 
of the arms under and around him; arms that hurt as 
they pressed into the wounds, yet :eased the pain be¬ 
cause of their very hurt. 

The desert sun was behind them. The shade of 
the foothills was over them, and the shadows were 
thick around them; strange, mysterious shadows that 
were big and fearful. All of the shadows, like the 
lights in the home of the soft pillow, had been small. 
But the girl, and the men who had come to see her 
had all been small, all the men he had ever known, 
save the big gray man that the girl called father, and 
the butler who carried him as though he were fearful 
of breaking him, and the two Cons—and, oh, yes, of 
course the hated Dan—had been small men. It did 
not seem right that Dan, too, should be a big man. 
Only men w T ho were men should be big. He wondered 
if small men felt about themselves as he did about his 
Own nine hundred dollars. He was glad, glad that 
this man who held him so tenderly, hurtfully tenderly, 


52 


SONNY 


knew nothing yet about the nine hundred dollars. In 
all the hours he had known him he hadn’t said one 
word about them, or it, or whatever it was, that 
marked a dog from his fellows. This new man was 
very big, and it was proper that everything in his 
world should be big, too. 

‘‘Here we are, son!” 

Sonny felt himself swung outward. Then he was 
laid on the cool grass. He smelled the odor of clear, 
fresh water, and his ears heard it bubbling and 
gurgling close beside him. 

“Stay there a minute, son, till I fix Pete for the 
night,” he heard the big man say, and he yelped to 
show that he understood. To the giant’s face came 
the look the dog knew indicated pleasure. “Yuh 
sure are a game little cuss!” he said, and he patted 
the wounded back. “By rights yuh oughta be dead 
after bein’ packed over the desert country that-a-way. 
Now yuh’re tellin’ me it’s all right.” 

The dog saw the man lead the horse around the 
back of the house before which they had stopped. 
He had never seen a house so small. Back where the 
soft pillow had been the houses were big, and the 
men and shadows were small. Here the houses were 
small, and everything else was big. It was a strange 
world he had entered, but he liked it because the big 
man had said it was all right. 

The bubbling water bothered him. He wanted to 
taste it, but the man had told him to stay where he 
was. It hadn’t been the words so much, but the tone 
that the dog understood. So he lay contentedly until 
the man came back. 

Sonny got his fill of water then, and it was cool and 
sweet; water such as he had never tasted before. 


SONNY 


53 


The giant bathed him. The water stung at first, just 
as the liniment had. But after the stinging came a 
delicious feeling of ease, and the last bit of fire was 
gone from his body. 

Inside the cabin, there was a new experience. 
The man put him on the coat in a corner, and at a 
hard iron thing near by he wrought a miracle. When 
a match had been dropped into the top of the iron 
thing, and another peculiar contrivance which the 
man held by a handle was put over it the whole air 
was filled with a strange, sizzling sound and a smell 
that was the most wonderful Sonny had ever known. 
It smelled like all the good things in the w r orld that 
could tantalize a dog’s nose. 

“Yuh ac’ like yuh like good oV bacon !” laughed the 
big man merrily. “Lord knows how a pup that’s 
went through what yuh have could think of eatin’!” 

Sonny wanted, oh, so hard to tell the giant that it 
was a new smell to him and that all he had ever tasted 
was warm milk, but he subsided as he realized the fu¬ 
tility of trying to lay bare his soul with mere tail wag- 
gings and happy whimpers. 

“All right,” laughed the big man again. “Tell me 
all about it. I ain’t had much conversation for a 
couple of weeks.” 

A second wonderful experience. The man took the 
sizzling things from the pan and drew a box close 
to the table. He lifted the coat and Sonny onto it. 
The nearness of the smell caused yelps to come 
sharp and quick. The man sat down at the other 
side of the table and put a piece of the bacon before 
the dog. 

“Now yuh wanta be refined an’ eat like yuh was 
used to sittin’ up proper,” warned the giant. 


54 


SONNY 


The dog tried to gobble the piece at one gulp. It 
was hot; hotter than the milk had ever been. He 
dropped it suddenly, and the big man opened his 
mouth, and the strange sound of pleasure came from 
it in great volume. 

“Tol’ yuh!” he laughed and nodded his head in 
mock sorrow. 

Sonny knew better next time. We waited patiently, 
watching the big man eat. Then he nibbled slowly at 
his own meal, and found that it tasted as good as it 
smelled. There were other pieces, but the big man 
shook his head. 

“On’y a few first till yuh get your second wind. 
Tuh-morra yuh kin eat your fill.” 

The dog was content. The smell still tickled his 
nose, but he lay down on the coat, and, with his head 
on his paws, watched the big man finish his meal and 
wash the dishes. 

That night Sonny slept at the feet of his new 
master. Several times he waked in the dark stillness 
to see that the big man was still there. Then his eyes 
closed again, and there was no pain nor hurt in the 
world. There was nothing but himself and the 
man. 

When the first rays of the sun shone through the 
one window in the cabin the dog was up. His legs 
were stronger and supported his body almost with¬ 
out effort, though the stiffness made him walk slowly. 
The muscles pulled at the tom places on his side and 
back. But he walked over every inch of the cabin 
and inspected. All around was the scent of the big 
man; in each corner, at each crack in the floor. He 
knew it was the big man’s home. 

Through the opened door he caught his first sane 


SONNY 


55 


glimpse of the big world into which he had been 
tossed. It was so much bigger a world than he had 
ever imagined could be. True, the house itself was 
small, but in comparison the great outdoors, the trees 
that towered skyward almost touching the blue, tanta¬ 
lized the dog. One of his first instincts had been a 
realization of color and the effect on him of the green 
of the trees and the clear sapphire of the sky was all 
the more monumental. He had no idea of what the 
trees might be, save that in contour they were some¬ 
thing like the great tall green things in the park he 
had heard the girl enthuse over so many times. But 
these were so different. Tall, spire-like spruces, 
stretching away down the hillside as far as the eye 
could reach, and beyond, dimly seen over their tops, 
that wide expanse of world, world, world, half golden 
in the morning light as the sun touched the sand of 
the near desert, and the distance lighted with roseate 
hues the dusty sage brush. It was all so big that it 
frightened the dog, even while his great eyes long¬ 
ingly eyed the green grass that stretched in front of 
the cabin. He drew back. He must wait until the 
big man told him it was all right. Inside was enough 
for him. Over and over he sniffed at each article that 
lay cluttered about. Ever there was the smell of the 
big man—his home. Just inside the door, where he 
could catch a glimpse of the great outdoors—the sun 
that was just beginning to top the steeplecl trees—he 
lay down. One eye was thoughtfully kept half open 
to watch the sleeper. Sonny had found his home. He 
knew it. 

When the man waked there was more of the sweet, 
juicy meat that tasted so good. A pan of milk, with 
a beautiful, sugary taste, was poured from a little 


56 


SONNY 


can and mixed with water. It w*as infinitely better 
than the warm milk he had always been given. 

The whole of the day was one of long, cool hours, 
when the dog lay in the grass at the feet of the man. 
There had been more of the water, and the liniment 
took the last vestige of burn from the wounds. But 
better, more healing, and finer than all else, was hear¬ 
ing the man talk to him. 

It was glorious to hear the giant talk. He told 
of many strange things that a dog couldn’t under¬ 
stand. But the tone—deep, with a suggestion of 
purring drawl—told all the things that a dog wanted 
to hear and loved. 

After another meal, with a different sort of food 
that tasted as fine as the bacon, they w r ent again to the 
tree beside the bubbling spring. The man took a 
heavy-looking thing that hung by his side and poured 
on it some vile-smelling stuff from a bottle. The dog 
wondered if all things that came from bottles were 
so unpleasant. But he crawled closer to see what it 
was that was hurt and needed liniment. 

The man held it out, but the dog didn’t like the 
smell. For some unaccountable reason it made his 
teeth bare and the growl sound deep in his throat. 
Then the deep laughter of the giant sounded. 

“That’s right, Sonny, ol’ scout!” he said. 
“Show the gun yuh ain’t afraid, even if he is gettin’ 
oiled so’s he’ll be fit.” 

He held it close to the ground, and turned it over 
and over so the dog could see. 

“Yuh haven’t been afraid to show your teeth, 
young friend, and I’ll be bound yuh’ve showed an 
accountin’ of ’em sometime, judgin’ by the way ye 
showed ’em tuh me when that lucky chanct brung 


SONNY 


57 


me up against yuh. But they’s other teeth. Looky,” 
and he held the evil-smelling, shiny thing close for the 
dog’s inspection. “That’s my teeth, boy. That’s 
what I use to keep people in their place when I have 
to. Kinda different from your teeth, eh? But I 
reckon that some day they’ll have a longer reach an’ 
a sharper bite. Some day, dawg!’’ 

Respect came to the dog as he understood that the 
heavy-looking thing the man carried at his hip was 
teeth. He knew that word. It meant protection. 
Although it seemed strange that a man so great and 
strong as this one should ever need protection—there 
was so much that a dog could not understand. 

“Yes, sir!” The giant shoved the shiny little 
round things into the holes of the gun and snapped 
it shut. “That smart-aleck postmaster at Ten Mile 
closed his mouth mighty sudden when he got a look 
at ’em. He tried kiddin’ Dave Deering because he 
let a mine get stole off’n him by a slick stock juggler. 
But his laugh wiped off immediate when he saw the 
ol’ gun ready to talk. People that laugh at things 
that ain’t to be laughed at better be careful. That’s 
what I tol’ him! Ain’t I right?” 

The dog yelped sharply. There was nothing in his 
newly awakened intelligence to tell him anything of 
the joy that Dave Deering had in being able to voice 
his thoughts to a living thing—Dave, who, in the 
bitterness engendered by the jibings of his former 
comrades had denounced them as he foreswore 
human companionship until such time as he could look 
them straight in the eyes to announce that he had 
again won. But Dave knew, and his heart warmed 
to the small animal that was to be brother and friend 
to him. All that Sonny could know was that Dave was 


58 


SONNY 


telling him something, and that he awaited a dog’s 
approval. Of course, it was the proper thing to do! 
Dave had done it, and it must be right. Dave! That 
was the man’s name. And it was a good name. 

“Sure!” nodded the man. “I guess yuh under¬ 
stand.” 

He put the heavy thing back into the leather 
holster at his hip. 

“But there’s a secret about teeth.” Dave spoke 
slowly, and the dog cocked his head so that he could 
hear every word. He knew he must listen when his 
master used that tone. “Yuh never want to show 
’em till yuh’re ready to bite. ’Course I don’t always 
practice what I preach, bein’ a man. But yuh, bein’ 
a dawg, oughta have more sense. I shouldn’t have 
flared up before ol’ Tuttle maybe. But a man that’s 
been robbed an’ beat don’t like to have it rubbed in. 
An’ I ain’t been in the humor to talk with people 
since I seen everything I was countin’ on go to smash 
and me startin’ back to this little place I give up three 
or four years ago. But when I am ready for conver¬ 
sation maybe this here thing’ll take the burden off’n 
my shoulders. An’, believe me, dawg, teeth talk is a 
sorta language no man don’t misunderstand. On’y 
yuh wanta remember that teeth ain’t to be showed 
till they’re ready for use. Jus’ remember that, will 
yuh?” 

Another yelp of understanding. So teeth were 
not to be shown unless it was at the proper time. 
That was a good thing to know! 

“I’ll bet two bits yuh do understand at that. 
Yuh’re about the wisest an’ games’ dawg I ever met 
up with. Yuh ain’t much to look at, that’s a cinch. 
Your head ain’t quite what a dog’s head oughta be. 


SONNY 


59 


Your front legs ain’t much like legs a-tall, ’cept the 
legs they put on them toy woolly dawgs that kids pull 
round with a string. No shape to ’em. Guess maybe 
yuh ain’t very much, the way the work figgers things, 
an’ likely as not that gol’ collar was stole by the 
jasper yuh was caught stealin’ a ride with—wonder 
what become uh him.—Never thought uh that before, 
eh? But a guy that’ll let his dawg get beat up and 
not be found layin’ down beside him, ain’t worth 
worryin’ much about nohow. Likely caught a freight, 
eh?” The dog’s tail wagged understandingly. “Yup, 
he likely stole that collar which I hope, not wishin’ 
to think that Pet was ever your name. I don’t sup¬ 
pose anybody in the work ’d give four bits for yuh 
on the hoof. But that’s the way it goes. The whiter 
yuh are, the rawer deal yuh get.” 

Sonny moved uncomfortably, and felt a little hurt 
when the man talked of his appearance. He was sur¬ 
prised. Everybody had always said that he was 
beautiful. For the first time he half wished that 
Dave knew about nine hundred dollars, for he had 
heard the girl say over and again to his admirers— 
and hers—that nine hundred dollars was ridiculous 
for a prize Airedale with blood such as ran in his 
veins. 

“But yuh’re my pal, son, an’ there ain’t nothin’ finer 
an’ bigger an’ better on this ok earth than a pal!” 

His hand touched the dog’s back and made every¬ 
thing right again. Nothing else mattered when the 
big man liked him and called him “pal.” That word 
had a wonderful sound. 

Evening came, and there was another heaven of 
food. The big man unstrapped the heavy thing from 
around his waist and tossed it on the bunk. The dog 


60 


SONNY 


went over to sniff at it. But the big man shook his 
head and told him to lie down in the corner. 

When the dishes were washed they went out to¬ 
gether and saw that the horse was comfortable for 
the night. Dave gravely introduced them: Sonny and 
Pete. The pony lowered its head, and the dog met 
sniff with sniff. Pete raised his head quickly, and 
Sonny knew he did not like the smell of the liniment. 
His friendly yelps tried to explain. The horse looked 
down at him gravely, and finally did seem to under¬ 
stand, for he nosed again at the dog. Then Sonny 
knew that he had two friends, and the stiffness was 
forgotten as he leaped and barked joyously. 

“Men,” mused Dave Deering, as he gazed up at 
the new moon that was silvering the tip tops of the 
spruces that sheltered the only home he knew, the 
cabin that had known his hopes and joys and bitter¬ 
ness. “Men!” he repeated. “What do they know of 
helping a fellow when he’s down and out. Now 
horses and dogs,” he grinned as he watched the play¬ 
ful antics of the pony and the small dog, “—uh course 
I ain’t never known much of women, but I’d say 
horses and dogs—they know-” 

He walked over to touch the leaping dog with a 
gentle hand. 

“Better save the strength, boy,” he advised, as 
gravely as though his words were spoken to a human 
companion. “We got another long trip in the 
mornin’. Up in the mountains for gold. We got to 
start out fresh again jus’ because a derned thief that 
sets in a fine office took everything we had.” 



CHAPTER V 


W HEN the first pink streaks of coming 'dawn 
showed over the tipmost tops of the spruces 
through the open cabin door, lying in long 
glittering threads across the bare board floor, Dave 
was up. Sonny watched him solemnly as he slid into 
his trousers and the heavy cowhide boots that reached 
up above the knees, a protection, had the dog but 
known it, not only from underbrush and cacti, but from 
the treacherous snakes that infested the tantalizing 
green things that adorned the mountains and the foot¬ 
hills. 

For the first time in weeks, Dave Deering whistled 
as he set about breakfast getting, dropping the bacon 
and cold potatoes into the small pan heavy with the 
grease of last night’s feast. The whistling broke 
into song that rolled over the tree tops and far down 
the valley to the beginning of the desert and sage 
brush. A half-rollicking half-lugubrious song he 
sang as he worked, stopping ever once in a while for 
a wink at Sonny who rolled about joyously at the 
festive sound, or for a pat on his back. 

“Every time I come to town, 

The boys start kickin’ my dawg armin', 

Makes no difference ef he is a houn’, 

They gotta stop kickin my dawg armin'.” 

It was still something else new for the dog 
accustomed until the last few days of fervid living to 
only the sedate—that sound that rolled from the big 


62 


SONNY 


man’s mouth and made a dog want to bark and add 
accompaniment from pure joy of living. But he 
liked it. Oh, decidedly he liked it. He would have 
kept on with his duet indefinitely had not Dave, 
hurrying unaccustomedly, stopped short as he dished 
up the breakfast with an unmistakable command to 
“set up and eat.” 

“Got a lot of hours in the saddle ahead, old timer,” 
explained Dave, as much to himself as to the dog 
who leaped with tail-wagging onto the box that Dave 
drew up to the pine board table for him. “Can’t be 
wastin’ time with the sun a-climbin’. 

It was characteristic of Dave Deering, had the 
dog but known it, that with all his hurrying, he must 
stop to wash his dishes before setting out on the trail. 
That done, his next move was to lift a board from 
the floor, and from a box there which he opened care¬ 
fully, he put many of the shiny things such as he had 
put in his gun into the loops of his belt. 

“Ain’t no teilin’ what we might meet up with when 
we strike it rich,” he said grimly. “An’ I ain’t bein’ 
robbed a second time!” 

He replaced the box and the board, and took other 
things from the shelves around the room; bulky 
packages of things to eat, and put them into a bigl 
bag. But as the man looked he shook his head. 

“Guess I’ll have to tap that cache of mine up there 
in the bush.” 

The dog was at his heels as he started toward the 
door. Dave turned and shook his head. 

“Better stay here, dawg,” he ordered kindly. 
“Them bushes is mighty thick, an’ there’s a powerful 
lot of stickers on ’em to hurt them cuts of yours. Stay 
here an’ I’ll be back in a shake.” 


SONNY 


63 


The yelp of the dog held some disappointment, but 
more acquiescence. He knew that the man would 
leave him for a short time, but he understood that he 
had been told to do something. He had been given 
an order! 

When the man had gone Sonny jumped to the 
bunk. The curiosity that had been burning back of 
the bright eyes would be satisfied now. He could see 
how strong the teeth of the man really were. He 
pulled at the long leather belt. It was heavy and 
tough and felt very like the leg of the brakeman had 
felt between his jaws. But he pulled and twisted. A 
great clatter frightened him. 

He looked down at the floor. The heavy gun had 
dropped from its holster, while one end of the belt 
dangled over the edge of the bunk. Sonny barked his 
triumph and leaped down. He had won. 

Sniffing at the gun, he approached it cautiously. 
The big man said that teeth weren’t to be shown un¬ 
less you were very sure. He remembered that. He 
would always remember it. He pushed at the gun 
with his nose, and it slid along the floor. It certainly 
wasn’t hard to move. Several feet he shoved it, and 
he barked at the joy of accomplishment. 

Finally he bit at it, and drew back with a yowl 
of surprise and pain. It hurt his teeth; hurt them 
frightfully. It was harder than he had thought any¬ 
thing in the world could be. Instead of his teeth 
biting it, the heavy gun seemed fairly to bite his own 
teeth. He lay down beside it, over near the wall, 
where it had slid. To the dog it seemed perfectly 
proper that the man’s teeth should be so hard and 
strong. He was the master. 

Outside, far away at first, then nearer, he heard a 


64 


SONNY 


voice that made the wiry hairs of his back bristle and 
a growl sound deep in his throat. His teeth bared, 
and he crouched low over the gun. Dan was outside! 

. Dan, the brakeman! 

He heard Dave speak, and his tone was friendly: 

“Sure. I’ll stake yuh to a bit of grub. I got 
plenty, an’ yuh kin stay right here in my shack. I’m 
goin’ up the hills. Yuh made some trip for a man 
that’s saddle soft.” 

The dog crouched lower, and the gun jabbed into 
his belly because he was right over it. And it felt 
good to know that the teeth of the man were close 
to him and ready to protect him. 

He heard the voice of Dan, the brakeman, again: 

“I’m on my way up to the hills, too. Guess I ain’t 
got time fer a rest.” 

“Suit yourself,” Dave said. “Me an’ my pal’s 
headed that-a-way.” 

“Yer pal?” Dan’s voice was sharp. 

“My dawg.” 

“Oh!” Dan said quickly, and he seemed to be glad 
about something. 

Dave’s hand was on the door latch, and it opened. 
Every hair on the dog’s body seemed to stand out 
straight. The growl that came from his throat was 
deeper and louder than it had ever been before. He 
crouched low, ready. If Dan came near, he would 
spring at the brakeman’s throat. But the big man 
had said that teeth weren’t to be shown until it was 
time to use them. 

The brakeman snarled out an oath. Dave whirled 
on him. Another growl came from the dog’s throat. 

Dave understood! 

“That cur!” Dan’s face w T as twisted so his yellow 


SONNY 


65 


teeth showed. His hand flashed to his hip and away 
again. 

“So yuh’re the one!” Dave’s voice sounded as it 
had out there on the desert beside the railroad tracks. 
‘‘Yuh dirty devil!” 

“Put yer hands up !” 

Dan had backed against the door, and the dog saw 
that the heavy thing he had taken from his hip was 
pointed at Dave. He saw the master put up his 
hands over his head. Dave was cursing, too. Some¬ 
thing told the dog that this was because he did not 
have the gun at his belt. He started to get up and 
show the master where it was. Dave’s eyes moved 
toward him like lightning without a movement of his 
head. 

“Down!” he ordered, and his voice was sharper 
than it had ever been before. “Lay down!” 

“He’ll lay down all right!” cursed Dan as he took 
a step forward. “The mangy cur! Still alive, eh? 
I oughta kicked him off before we slowed down for 
Ten Mile.” 

“Yuh carrion!” Dave’s face was blacker and more 
twisted than the face of the brakeman. 

“Where’s yer gun?” growled Dan as he walked 
toward the bunk where the empty belt dangled. 

“Lost it,” Dave said sullenly. He looked full at 
the dog, and something in his eyes—some unspoken 
language that the dog understood—told him to lie 
still. 

“Back up there against the wall! Over there 
with yer cur! Kick him outta the way if he gets in it. 
An’ if you move I ll drill yuh!” 

The dog cowered lower as Dave stepped over him 
and stood with his back against the wall. There 


66 


SONNY 


was a terrible look on the master’s face, a look that 
frightened the dog. And the great body shook so 
that the hands that were over his head gripped and 
tightened. From Dave’s lips came slow words that 
made the dog tremble with vague fear that he did not 
understand. Fie knew that he should have no fear 
of the big man, and he knew it wasn’t fear of that. 
It was just fear of something. And the gun jabbed 
deep into his belly. 

“I’ll take these cartridges, too; you won’t need ’em 
when you ain’t got a gun.” A laughing sneer 
emphasized the words. A growl sounded deep in the 
dog’s throat. “Shut up!” snarled the brakeman. 
“I’ll fix you, too!” 

He bent over to pick up the belt that dangled from 
the bunk edge to the floor. From the corner of his 
Seyes the dog saw the big man’s arm swoop down. 
The hand that had always been so soft before struck 
him with its open palm and sent him aside in a rolling, 
tumbling body of amazed hurt. 

An awful crash sounded in the room. Another. 
He saw Dan stagger against the wall. Then came 
a familiar clatter. The gun fell from Dan’s hand to 
the floor. And Dan went backward after it in a heap 
that shook the whole cabin when he fell. 

“Damn yuh!” he heard Dave saying. “Yuh dog 
beater!” 

The big man turned to where Sonny whined on the 
floor. 

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, and his tone was soft, 
very soft and different. “I couldn’t help it, 
dawg. I had to do it that-a-way. But yuh’ve done a 
mighty big thing for me. Yuh paid your debt.” 

Then the dog understood. He had kept the man’s 


SONNY 


67 


teeth hidden and safe until the time had come to use' 
them. The teeth of the man had been harder and 
stronger. They had bitten more deeply than his had 
been able to bite. Dan was on the floor. i 

Dave stepped over to where the brakeman lay. 
The dog crawled forward slowly, for his legs were 
still shaky. Dave’s arm hung limp at his side, and 
from the finger tips blood was dripping very slowly. 

Sonny forgot himself and his own hurts. He ran 
in front of the man, and jumped against his knees. 
D ave was hurt. Dave! He yelped and thrust out 
his tongue. If he could lick the hurt, it would be 
better. His own had been better when his tongue 
had touched them. 

Stooping for a second, the man looked down at 
him. He seemed to comprehend, for he lifted his 
arm slowly and stared at it. The curious sounds 
came from his throat; the strange noises that had at 
first puzzled the dog and which he had come to think 
he understood. But now he was puzzled. The man 
was hurt—and he was laughing! 

“On’y a nick, dawg,” grinned the big man. “Jus’ 
pinked my arm a bit. He ain’t a killer!” The laugh 
went out of the booming voice, and it became sober. 
“Let’s see if I am. I was crazy mad for a second, 
but murder ain’t no nice thing for a man to pack 
around.” 

He leaned over Dan, then straightened up to 
speak, muttering this time Sonny knew, to himself. 
His tone was different, and the dog wondered how 
a voice could tell so many things that a dog under¬ 
stood. 

“Jus’ creased him, thank God!” Dave brushed his 
good hand across his eyes. “Oughta shot him like 


68 


SONNY 


a sieve, but he’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.** 
He looked down at the dog, and his gaze held for a 
long time. “Well, boy,” he said slowly, “I guess we 
squared up.” 

On the floor, Dan stirred slightly and moaned. 

“Watch him, Sonny!” commanded Dave as he 
stripped off his coat. 

On the edge of the bunk, with the pistol close to 
his hand, he tore a long strip from his shirt, and, 
with one end in his teeth, tied up the wound on his 
arm. Dan’s eyes opened, only to look up into the 
fiery ones of the dog. He rolled over, and the dog’s 
muzzle, with its hot breath, was at his throat. He lay 
still, but the dog’s teeth did not grip into the flesh. 
Dave had not ordered him to bite. Curses came 
from the lips of the man on the floor, but he did not 
move. 

Dave pulled on his coat. He strapped the heavy 
belt around his waist, and put the gun back in its 
holster. He picked up the other pistol from the 
floor, and put it into the pocket of his heavy blue 
overalls. Then he stood over the man. 

“I’ll leave yuh enough grub for a couple of days, 
yuh dirty, yellow-hearted horse thief. I ain’t killin* 
yuh because I’m countin’ on a piece of rope doin’ it 
some day. It always gets your kind. We’re goin* 
now, me an’ my pal. Yuh’d better get back to Ten 
Mile, where yuh come from, because maybe the nex’ 
time I might be kinda impatient about that rope 
delayin’.” 

He picked up the bag of food, and turned toward 
the door. 

“Come on, Sonny!” he said, and his voice was very 
quiet. 


SONNY 


69 


The dog obeyed. He did not bark nor yelp. It 
seemed that silence was the right thing. Back of 
the cabin, Dave saddled and bridled Pete and tied 
the food bag to the pommel. 

“Up yuh go, boy!” he said, as he swept the dog 
before him and climbed to the back of the horse. 
“Yuh ain’t quite up to walkin’ yet, an’ there’s a long 
trail ahead.” 

Once the big man looked back toward the cabin 
and Dan’s horse that quietly nibbled the grass in front 
of it. Then his strong arms cradled the dog close to 
his body, and his rough face lowered as the tongue 
of the animal reached up to touch it. So they rode 
into the hills together in silence and in peace. 

For hours after the second meeting with Dan in 
the cabin Sonny rode cradled in the arms of the big 
man. With but brief halts they continued far into 
the darkness of the night. To the left and 
to the right of them loomed strange, curious black 
things of shadows that seemed to move a thousand 
beckoning fingers of invitation. Yet the voice of the 
man in the saddle commanded him to lie quiet in the 
protecting arms. 

Once during the early part of the ride Dave spoke 
in that deep voice which told so much more than mere 
words ever could. 

“Ain’t goin’ to have no jaspers follerin’ our trail 
this time, Sonny. That thievin’ Eastern stock juggler 
took our other property away because he knowed 
more’n w T e did. Ain’t goin’ to make the same mistake 
twicet. Nobody but us is goin’ to know where we’re 
trailin’ for or why.” 

A turn through the woods, and the swishing of 
high bushes that sometimes touched the body of the 


70 


SONNY 


dog with their sweet, cool caresses. The splashing of 
water under the hoofs of the horse. 

“We’ll jus’ climb along this here crick a little, 
dawg, an’ hit it over the hills when we get to that 
patch of bare rocks at the turn.” 

The pony stumbled at times over the stones of the 
creek bottom. When these sudden lurches came, the 
arms of the man tightened around the dog in cruel 
pressure. Once or twice a low whimper of pain 
sounded as the raw welts that the beating chain had 
left burned with the fire of blood that had begun to 
trickle out again. But the big man’s voice sounded, 
fine and tender: 

“On’y a little way, Sonny; jus’ a bit more, dawg.” 

Up the smooth, shelving rocks at the side of the 
winding creek the pony scrambled through a gully 
of loose, round stones. 

“Won’t make any trail here, boy. Won’t leave 
many marks for any more thieves to follow an’ locate 
the claim we’re goin’ to find. Nussir! Jus’ us two, 
dawg—yuh an’ me!” 

On through the darkness. Upward, ever upward, 
they traveled. The chill of the heights got into the 
dog’s body and made him shiver with the cold. Dave 
pulled his coat over him and held him close to his own 
big body until the trembling ceased and all the world 
was warm and right again. 

At last the stop. Gently Dave swung from the 
saddle and to the ground. 

“Reckon we’ll build a little fire, boy, an’ fix yuh up 
comfortable. Got to do that before we hit the 
blankets. A man can’t sleep till he knows his pony 
an’ dawg is all right an’ proper. Jus’ lay still an’ 
let Dave do the doctorin’.” 



SONNY 


71 


Sonny obeyed and tried to forget the faintness and 
sickness that filled his whole hurt body. His sharp 
ears followed every sound as the man searched the 
shadows for wood. Presently a spark of flame 
showed in the cup of Dave’s hand, and new shadows 
of weird, fantastic shapes advanced and retreated 
from the blackness to meet the leapings of the 
fire. 

“Sho!” whistled Dave sympathetically when he 
saw the dog. “Yuh sure are a game little cuss. 
Bleedin’ again ’cause my arms worked them cuts 
open. An’ not a whine!” 

With water from a stream Dave bathed the hurts 
and put on more of the vile-smelling liniment which 
stung and brought relief by its very stinging. As he 
worked Dave talked in the deep voice that was so 
good for a dog to hear. That voice was the bond of 
unswerving friendship, of palship, and camaraderie. 

Dave left him on the sweet, green grass, and went 
to fix Pete, the pony. When the pony had been fixed 
for the night Dave spread out his blanket and they 
slept. 

A chorus of queer noises waked the dog. Even 
before the animal’s bright eyes flew open he knew 
those sounds held no danger, but only sweetness and 
joy. The trees, the bushes, even the long grasses 
were filled with birds. Sonny knew they were birds 
because of the inherent instinct that was part of him 
and which told him the difference between friend and 
foe, love and hate. 

All the birds were saying good morning to him! 
They were telling him how wonderful it was to be 
alive in a universe of purple and red and gold—and 
Dave! He barked at them with short, quick yelps of 


72 


SONNY 


confirmation that sounded like the noises that came 
from Dave’s throat when he was pleased. 

The big man’s eyes opened sleepily. The dog ran 
to him and touched his face with his red tongue, then 
leaped back and barked at him. 

“Go ’way, yuh darn alarm clock,” growled Dave 
in pretended anger and a twist of the lips that always 
came before those queer throat sounds of pleasure. 
“Daw-gone yuh!” grunted the big man as he kicked 
away the blanket. “By rights yuh oughta curled up 
an’ died after last night’s ride. Now here you’re 
gam-bolin’ an’ friskin’ round like nothin’ ever hap¬ 
pened to yuh a-tall!” 

The dog jumped around him and nibbled at the 
toes of Dave’s boots in play. 

“Shut up that swearin’!” chided the big man 
severely. “Come here an’ let me see them cuts.” 

The dog obeyed, and stood without wincing while 
Dave’s fingers examined his back. 

“Blamed if I know how yuh do it!” muttered the 
giant, with many shakes of his head. “If most men 
had a body like that, they’d be in bed groanin’ an’ 
makin’ a new will every ten minutes. Yuh sure are 
a m#tt-dawg, Sonny!” 

Another bathing and more of the liniment, and 
breakfast. After breakfast Dave sat under a tree 
and smoked many cigarettes as he told the dog that 
he was too plumb tired to do any prospecting, just 
as any man ought to be after packing a big, healthy 
cow of a dog all night in the saddle. 

The next day though, he took a small pick and went 
out on foot with the dog at his heels. The hours of 
rest and the care had taken most of the stiffness and 
burn from the cuts, and there was no need of hurry, 


SONNY 73 

because Dave walked very slowly and made many 
stops. 

At first Sonny thought it was a game the man 
played with his small pick and the rocks. But soon he 
learned that it was serious work his master did. 
Before noon hunger took them back to the shady 
glade, where Pete nibbled the grass. Sonny was as 
gravely earnest as the big man. He sniffed at the 
rocks and sat contentedly until Dave finished with one 
piece and went to the next. It was very important, 
the work they were doing. 

There followed other days of contentment and 
rest in the hills for the man and the dog. The scars 
of the biting chain on the dog’s body were all that 
was left of the cuts and wounds. The muscles of his 
legs became sliding things of thew and sinew, with 
the hardness of steel. The chest over the strong, 
straight front legs broadened and deepened with 
each breath of the air. Sonny learned to run miles 
over the rough rocks of the mountain and to come 
back to his master without conscious effort. 

The world was such a big place! 

But he knew it had to be big so that there might 
be room in it for the big man that filled every corner 
of the dog’s universe. Around the big rocks, near 
the trees, and on the top of the white mountain itself 
was Dave Deering, the master. 

All roads, all trails through the thick underbrush 
of the forest led back to him. In the day he was ever 
present with a twist of his lips before the dog’s eyes; 
and his great voice that was so like his big hand when 
it caressed the dog’s back. In the night, Dave seemed 
to loom out of the darkness wherever the dog looked. 

Sometimes Sonny was sorry for Dave because he 


74 


SONNY 


could have no one to love and worship as the dog did. 
Dave was bigger and finer than anything else. And it 
was only the bigger things that were deities. So Dave 
could have no god—he was a god, and the universe 
he ruled was an Airedale dog that had been kicked 
out into the desert to die. 


CHAPTER VI 


U NDER the gray-black, clouded sky, lighted only 
by the few faint far-away stars between, the 
desert lay like some inky turbulent sea, the 
sage-brush the waves that rose and fell in the dim 
blackish light. A long time the moon had sunk be¬ 
hind a far horizon, but a glow, half phosphorescent, 
proclaimed the coming dawn. Just before its 
appearance, the last light in the last blind tiger shack 
in Ten Mile had gone out under the puff of alcoholic 
breath of the latest purveyor of liquid refreshment, 
banned and otherwise, who left behind him as 
he stumbled off to bed an odor of bad whiskey and 
kerosene fumes that fought for ascendency in the 
room with its cluttered tables with scattered cards 
and sloppy glasses. One light alone remained to 
show that the shacks of Ten Mile were more than 
the shadows of the sage on the desert at its edge. 
Four ribbons of light showed through the doors of 
the jail that was Ten Mile’s pride, the jail that each 
of the inhabitants had “ponied up” for and which 
had been raised with much ceremony when its corru¬ 
gated parts and bars had arrived but a few weeks be¬ 
fore, each neatly labeled as to its respective place in 
the construction which was left to the imagination of 
the builders. That the jail had finally been fitted to¬ 
gether was partly due to the sheriff himself whose 
acumen had unraveled the intricacies of pages of 
instruction, and partly to his native sense which told 
him that reinforcement of stones and cement where 

75 


76 


SONNY 


the jail somehow seemed to offer wide chances of 
escape would not be amiss. So Ten Mile had its jail, 
and it was the pride of Sheriff Pearson that it was 
ready day and night. Wherefore the four ribbons of 
light that tried to find their way across the darkling 
desert. They came from the bars across the front 
door of Sheriff Pearson's jail, and if those bars may 
have felt a bit out of place, it was no fault of theirs 
since they had had no hand whatsoever in having been 
placed in a door that once was intended as an entrance 
for automobiles, any more than the inhabitants of 
Ten Mile had had any hand in being deluded by a 
slick salesman into purchasing a portable garage they 
were told was a jail. 

It was the hour that Ten Mile was quiet. The one 
hour of the day or night, for at daybreak activities 
would begin once more. But with the turning out of 
the last light, the latest prospector had fumblingly 
found his pinto and ridden away to the foothills, 
either to wait for daybreak for his days puttering 
about breaking up stones, or to sleep off the effects of 
what Ten Mile had to purvey. It was so still that 
the slight breeze that tried valiantly to puff in from 
the foothills rattled the nearest sage brush like waste 
paper blown across a park at daybreak, and could be 
heard, had there been anyone to hear. All the more 
reason that the man who crawled on his stomach 
toward the rear of the long line of shacks on one side 
of the streets held his breath and made his progress 
Indian fashion, so that his body made no more noise 
than a slithering snake whose motions his own so 
resembled. Close to the sheer unpainted back of one 
of them, his head raised cautiously. In the stillness, a 
snore sounded audibly from inside the shack. In the 


SONNY 


77 


Half-luminous light his smile was wry. Just as 
cautiously as he had approached, he raised himself 
until his body pressed close to the shack, melting into 
it in the black shadows. His hand went to his hip 
pocket and touched the gun that lay there. From an¬ 
other, he took an instrument that for one moment 
gleamed dully in the bit of starlight. The slight 
rasping sounds he made with it as he pressed his body 
against the wooden door were no louder than those 
that might have been made by a gnawing rat, but no 
rat could have gnawed in so short a time the hole 
that he presently, with the caution of a professional, 
wriggled his great body through. 

Inside, he stopped a moment with bated breath. 
From somewhere nearby, the snores that had been 
heard from the outside came regularly, sonorously. 
Shoeless, he tiptoed across the room and bent for a 
moment over the sleeper. In one hand he held a 
handkerchief from which came a pungent odor. It 
had almost reached the sleeper’s face when there 
came a startled sound and Old Man Tuttle sat bolt 
upright, blinking as is the way of a sound sleeper, sud¬ 
denly roused. 

His voice rose in a thin wail of remonstrance. 

“Shut up !” growled the intruder, as his hand made 
a dive with the handkerchief toward the toothless 
mouth of the old postmaster. 

But if he had thought to make an easy conquest of 
Zachariah Tuttle, he had reckoned without a knowl¬ 
edge of that ancient’s early record, or the reason of 
his having earned the post he held in Ten Mile. On 
the instant, something of the vim that had once made 
the old man a terror in a country where a man who 
was quickest was winner in a battle of life and death, 


78 


SONNY 


came back to him. Like a tiger he had eluded the 
bigger man and thrown himself upon him. Catlike, 
too, his talon-like nails came into requisition, the only 
weapon he had, since the gun with which he protected 
the money of the government he served was safely 
idle beneath the pillow which his head had so lately 
pressed. 

It was no easy victory the intruder won. Round 
and round the room they whirled, the old man cling¬ 
ing like a demon to the man who had roused him, his 
frail body swinging out like a flail as they circled, each 
trying for the other’s throat, the intruder, however, 
with one thumb gripped into the postmaster’s jugular 
so that he was incapable of giving the one hail that 
might have brought all sober Ten Mile to his rescue. 
For a time it even looked as though the old man was 
getting the better of it—that once when his two re¬ 
maining razor-edged teeth dug deep into the arm of 
his assailant. It was the other’s advantage. To 
him came the opportunity of reaching into his pocket 
for the blue steel weapon he had not brought into 
play. But it was not to fire it. With all his 
remaining strength—for much of it had been ex¬ 
pended in fighting the soundless battle—soundless 
save for the raucous breathing that it seemed could 
not possibly go unheard in the stillness that hung over 
Ten Mile—he brought it down from behind the old 
man in a resounding crunch on the all but hairless old 
skull. Like a sack of meal that has been dropped 
into a miller’s cropper, the postmaster fell into the 
middle of the floor. Panting for breath the other 
bent over him. His own breath came in sickening 
gasps, and the wryness of his mouth made of him a 
demon as he hissed: 


SONNY 79 

“There, damn yuh! Yuh was lookin’ for it 1 
Yuh got it!” 

Not an instant did he hesitate. His hand was in 
the trousers’ pocket of his victim—Old Man Tuttle 
had made it a boast always that he slept ready for 
action, and that when the time came he would die 
with his boots on. There had been those facetious, 
those same ones who later were laudatory, who used 
to proclaim that those boots had grown to Old Man 
Tuttle—perhaps the trousers, too. No one in the 
memory of Ten Mile could remember a change; only 
a new patch occasionally which they declared must 
have been sewed on him. From those trousers 
pockets, the marauder drew a motley collection. 
Pencils; pieces of plug tobacco; a frayed post-card, 
illegible from long carrying, and pathetically 
crinkled; two greasy playing cards; a piece of blue 
billiard chalk; pennies; cancelled stamps. All went 
flying across the floor. Not until his long-drawn 
“Ah!” proclaimed that he had discovered that for 
which he sought did the assaulter rise from beside 
his victim. In his hand he held a bunch of keys. 

Swiftly as a cat darting on a rat-hole prey, and as 
noiselessly, he darted to the inner room. In a time 
that proved he knew what he was looking for and 
kn'ew where to look for it he was back, and as he 
came, he came stuffing into his pockets some flat 
layers of postage stamps, and crumpled bills. One 
second he bent over his victim. There was no breath 
there. He grinned wryly as his hand stuffed tighter 
his loot. 

“Pleasant dreams!” he vouchsafed. 

The nearer luminosity lighted up his way through 
the entrance he had made. The flat dark ground and 


80 


SONNY 


the clumps of sage brush hid the belly-crawling figure 
far out to the edge of the mesa where a horse’s slight 
whinny greeted him. 

Ten Mile, with the first lighting of the desert, 
stirred to life. On the floor of the room back of Ten 
Mile’s second pride—its post-office—a frail old figure, 
with a gash in the head that lay in a pool of blacken¬ 
ing and clotted blood, stirred. Once more the tenacity 
with which Old Man Tuttle had held to life, the 
memory of the boasts he had made, asserted them¬ 
selves. The rheumy eyes, opening to the dawn, hazily 
regarded the ceiling, remembered that it was not the 
particular spot of the ceiling he would have regarded 
had he, as on so many other occasions, looked up at 
it after a night on the other side of the street. Dim 
consciousness returned to him. Dim, but real. He 
tried to rise. He could not. The groan was not of 
agony, but of fury. His hand reached out for the 
pine boards of the floor as if for support. One closed 
around something. He held it up. At first he could 
not recognize what it was his loose fingers held. 
Then slowly returning consciousness reasserted itself. 

If it must be- There was a viciousness in the 

smile he forced to his battered mouth. One hand 
went out with the thing he held in his hand—the blue 
billiard chalk. Long it took—he forced life within 
him while he scrawled. Peace came into his 
smile as his hand dropped. He slept. He would not 
wake. 

On the floor beside him, scrawled in blue chalk: 
D-A- He G-O-T- 

Lem Crowder, deputy, yawned prodigiously as he 
looked out through the garage-jail’s front bars and 





SONNY 


81 


wondered how long it would be before Sheriff Pear¬ 
son came to relieve him. Lem grew grouchy over the 
fact that he was only a deputy and that Bill Pearson 
left him the dull part of the night to keep the jail 
working. There were most times when Lem was 
pompously proud of being the chief aide of Bill 
Pearson whose fame went all through the sage brush 
country and even as far as Chicago, which could be 
proved by a number of carefully preserved and thumb* 
marked clippings purporting to show how Bill had held 
off a mob bent on lynching an automobile thief (the 
newer day replica of the horse thief) and had single- 
handed battled against them until he had been able 
to transfer his prisoner with the aid of only a dozen 
or two of the state constabulary to a safer jail. 
After twelve o’clock at night, Lem was compelled to 
admit it was lonesome in the Ten Mile jail, par¬ 
ticularly when there was not even a drunk who had 
tried to rip up the town to relieve the monotony when 
somnolence tried to triumph. He glanced eagerly up 
the streets, as he stifled another yawn; to see the front 
(doors of the first two public places open. His eagle 
!eye sought out Bill Pearson’s greasy sombrero in 
front of the post-office. A muttered word in no very 
polite verbiage escaped him as he saw the sheriff try 
the door of the post-office. 

“Out of terbaccer agin, eh?” he muttered, and his 
yawn widened as he saw the sheriff disappear toward 
the back of the shack that housed the government 
office. It was minutes before he saw the sheriff 
reappear, and then it was through the front door 
of the post-office with a halloo that roused all still 
sleeping Ten Mile. 

The phenomenon of something happening in a 


82 


SONNY 


quiet spot in one moment which the next is filled 
with a rushing, curious mob, is by no means confined 
to the larger cities, as exponents of mob psychology 
have tried to expound. It is a world phenomenon, 
differing in various spots merely in the number that 
can be aroused by a cry or an assumption of in¬ 
terest. 

Ten Mile was no metropolis. But within the 
space of a trouser-putting on time from the moment 
he emerged from the post-office with his warning cry 
Sheriff Pearson was not alone with what he had to 
tell. The general store-keeper who had opened the 
first door had not stopped to go around his counter, 
but leaped over and was first to reach him. 

“It’s Old Man Tuttle 1” gasped the sheriff. “Mur¬ 
dered! Head bunged in! Dead in his own 
blood-” 

The furious questions and the onslaught on the 
post-office were subdued in the next few moments only 
by the sheriff himself who asserted his authority. It 
was not, though, until he heard a high-voiced shriek 
from the outskirts of the mob and recognized the 
accents of little Bart Taylor that the mists in the 
official’s own brain cleared. 

“Dave Deering!” cried the small man. “Didn't 
I see him! Didn’t I hear him! It’s Dave Deering!” 
A quiet that lasted a breath’s-taking stilled the crowd. 
There were those among them, most of them, who 
had called Dave Deering friend. That he could have 
been guilty of such a thing was beyond them. 

A1 Foster, owner of the White Pelican, sneered 
openly, to break the moment’s tension. 

“Tell it to your grandmother!” he scoffed. “Dave 
Deering! Hmmph!” 



SONNY 


83 


Easily swayed as a crowd is, the temper swayed 
from tragedy to laughter. 

“Listen to Pee-wee!” 

“Looking for a use for a good gravestone, Pee- 
wee?” 

“And Dave Deering the best shot in the country!” 

“Errmph!” 

Sheriff Pearson silenced the ribald laughter that 
went up with an officially uplifted hand. The hand 
lowered to designate with pointed finger two or three 
of the still gathering throng. 

“Yuh keep ’em back, Jed, and Frank, and Bert— 
and yuh come on in here with me, yuh Bart Taylor 
and yuh, Charlie Meeks—yuh’ve a right, I reckon, 
seein’s as how yuh was married to his girl that’s 
yuh’re a widower frum now-” 

Solemnly, in all state, as the nondescript onlookers 
goggled at the mystery—not that killings were alto¬ 
gether strange, but at the perfectly urban complicity 
of this one—the inhabitants of Ten Mile fell back 
before the newly appointed authority of sheriff’s depu¬ 
ties as the sheriff himself and his witnesses disap¬ 
peared into the post-office. Their patience, though, 
was quickly rewarded, for the sheriff reappeared but 
a few moments later with a solemnity that brought a 
hush on the murmuring throng. 

“Boys,” he said, solemnly, “I’m afraid it’s true— 
in fact I know it is—Dave is guilty. There’s writin’ 
of Old Man Tuttle’s to prove it.” 

For only the instant it took the men of Ten Mile 
to absorb the information were they quiet. First a 
murmur; another; an uproar, as the first muttered 
oath rolled out over the desert to contaminate the 
weathered sage brush. 



84 


SONNY 


“Dave!” came the first gasp. 

“Dave Deering!” 

“The-” 

As though by a preconcerted signal, the crowd 
broke into segments. 

“Get him!” came the cry. 

“Get the man that got Old Man Tuttle!” 

In the face of the bull madness that arose, the pro¬ 
tests of Sheriff Pearson’s bellowing voice were like the 
swish of a back water against the onslaught of surf. 
His authority, his uplifted hand, his choicest invective; 
his daring of authority and gun on either hip which 
roared out of the before quiet street of Ten Mile— 
all were ineffective. 

In the time of telling the story, the posse that was 
bound to the foothills, Dave-Deering-ward, was on 
its way—sheriff or no sheriff. The sheriff himself 
had lighted the match to the tinder, always highly 
seasoned to catch at a flicker. 

Two hours later, a dusty, breakfastless Ten Mile 
coterie—all except a sheriff and his deputy and the 
few women who remained behind to gossip—drew up; 
silently into the foothills where Dave Deering’s cabin 
lay with the bright sun streaming into its open door¬ 
way—the bright sunlight that a dog had looked 
and wondered at there. As silently, and not to dis¬ 
turb a sleeper, they drew into a cordon about the 
place. So intent had they been that not one noticed 
the extra man who had joined the mobbing party 
as the last steep slope was climbed, a man whose 
pony’s head hung limp as though tired from a long, 
long journey. 

Slowly they closed in. Breathlessly they listened 
for a sound from the cabin. Soundless they were left. 



SONNY 


85 


Charlie Meeks, buoyed by an hysterical fanaticism, 
engendered principally from the bottle that A1 Foster 
had so freely proffered during the ride, climbed from 
his horse and swaggered. 

“I’m going in!” he declared. “Old Man Tuttle 
was my father-in-law, and the son-” 

Murmurs of approval greeted him. 

But when he appeared, blankly, a few moments 
later, there were some from Ten Mile who tittered. 
Charlie had never been remarkable for bravery be¬ 
fore. There must have been something that told 
Charlie, as it had the rest of Ten Mile, that Dave 
Deering was not there. Almost it seemed that the 
lynching party was a fiasco. 

“Boys!” A new voice broke in, tentatively, half 
apologetically. “Let me say something. There’s one 
or two of you know me—Dan Dugan, brakeman on 
the Overland. Got laid off on account a damn dog 
bit me; come up here in the hills this mornin’ early 
thinkin’ maybe I might give up railroadin’ and get me 
a prospect. Stopped at this here cabin for a bite, but 
when I looked through the winder-” 

The posse from Ten Mile looked curiously at the 
interrupter. He divined their curiosity. His instinct 
of self-protection bade him go on. 

“Want I should show you?” he asked. “When 
I seen you-all cornin’ I asks myself what’s wrong— 
same as I’d asked myself before-” 

“Wa-a-1 ?” 

It was A1 Foster’s growl. A1 Foster, always will¬ 
ing to be shown; never willing to give quarter. 

“What I seen—” began Dan Dugan, “—well, yuh 
just come an’ look.” 

More than half reluctantly, even eagerly, the 





86 


SONNY 


posse from Ten Mile 'divided themselves into sec¬ 
tions to follow the informer into the cabin of Dave 
Deering. From the center of the floor, he lifted a 
board. A sinewy arm inserted itself. Triumphantly 
he drew it forth to disclose a wisp of crumbled bills 
and a packet of blood-stained stamps. 

“Damn!” muttered A1 Foster. “He’s guilty as 
hell!” 

Charlie Meeks lifted the lid of the stove in which 
a few embers still burned. 

“This for the damned coyote’s hole!” he exclaimed 
dramatically. He scattered the live embers about the 
cabin floor. 

“Come on!” growled A1 Foster. “It’s a day’s 
work. He ain’t cornin’ back.” 

Down the gradual incline up which they had come 
blood-thirsty, the posse from Ten Mile filed slowly 
toward the sage brush that burned in the sun 
and gave no eerie shadows and misty promises as it 
had in the dim dawn. Unlike Lot’s wife, they did 
not look back. 

But up over the spire-like trees that a dog had 
looked on and found good, blue spirals of smoke 
stirred and came to raptuous life; green tops of 
pointed trees shriveled and curled into aroma from 
licking flames. Dave Deering’s cabin home—Sonny’s 
first real home—was turning into ash. 


CHAPTER VII 


A MONTH, or a year or a day. It means so 
little in a dog’s life. An eternity couldn’t have 
meant any more to Sonny, living as he did 
with his deity. But counted by Dave Deering’s 
calendar, hacked out each day on the stick of wood 
that stood peg-like, beside his fire, but never took its 
place as kindling, over three weeks had passed its 
monotonous length of gold searching, with as many 
stretching out ahead. 

But it had been a time crowded with days of new 
wonders for the dog that had been a girl’s pet in New 
York until he had been kicked out of a train into the 
arms of a god who had changed all things. Sonny 
was no longer a puppy. His wiry hair had grown, 
hiding the scars that would be on his body until the 
earth covered his last resting place. He could run- 
at Pete’s side for hours and lie on his haunches with 
his bright eyes watching Dave for all the other hours 
of the day. 

The man’s pick was always busy. But the dog 
noticed that he did not talk so cheerfully as he had. 
He shook his head many times during the day. There 
was something wrong. Sonny knew it must be in the 
rocks that Dave was always chipping at. He barked 
at them angrily now and then. 

“Looks like we’ll have to go back to Ten Mile for 
grub, boy,” Dave said one day when they had 
traveled for hours downhill. “Nary a speck of gold. 
But I sure do hate to pack into that town bare.” 

87 


88 


SONNY 


So it went on a time more, then one day they 
started. Started on the down trail—the dog leaping 
and biting playfully at the leather stirrups, the man 
whistling his rolicking tune, joying in its lilt, as the 
cowboy to whom it belongs always sings it, dolorous 
in text as it is. 

“ Oh—bury me de-e-ep in the lone prai-i-ri-e-” 

The sun was sinking behind the blue-white, far-away 
mountains when they made their way beside the creek 
which they had traversed on their upward journey. 
The shadows were sending their long arms out of 
the bushes and trees around them. 

“Pret’ nigh there, boy,” encouraged the man. 
“Gettin’ late, though. Reckon we’d better hit for the 
cabin to-night, an’ make an early start for Ten Mile 
in the mornin’.” 

The last screened turn of the trail that led to the 
cabin was just ahead of them when Sonny stopped 
suddenly. There was a curious smell in the air that 
brought a growl to his throat and made the wiry hairs 
on his neck bristle. His forelegs spread wide as he 
sniffed. 

“What is it, Sonny?” smiled the man tolerantly. 
“Seein’ things ?” 

The dog barked with staccato emphasis, and put 
his front paws against the side of the pony as he stood 
up to bark again. Something wrong was just ahead 
of them; something that Dave should know before 
he went on. The big man looked down in puzzlement, 
then a sudden scowl came to his face. 

“Yuh don’t think that Dan jasper is stallin’ round 
yet, do yuh?” he asked seriously. “Seemed like he’d 
want to cut out the first time he could after gettin* 




SONNY 


89 


burned with my lead’ an’ feelin’ them teeth of yours 
against his throat.” 

The growl of the dog said plainly that it wasn’t 
Dan ahead of them. It wasn’t anybody apparently. 
It was just—something that shouldn’t be there. The 
puzzled look came back to the big man’s face and he 
shook his head. 

“Sorry, boy,” he said, “but I don’t quite get yuh. 
Guess we’ll have to plug on an’ see what yuh’re wise 

to. 

He slapped the reins on Pete’s neck, and they 
started ahead again. The dog kept close to the heels 
of the horse, and sniffed as the growl sounded con¬ 
tinuously in his throat. 

At the turn in the trail a curse snapped viciously 
from Dave’s teeth. The dog saw, then, what the 
vaguely familiar smell had meant. Where the rough 
shack had stood was only a blackened, charred heap. 

“That houn’!” burst from Dave. “I oughta killed 
him. I mighta knowed he’d do somethin’ like that! 
The buzzard meat! 

“No, b’gee!” With that second exclamation Dave 
sent Pete ahead with a jump. “There’s been a gang 
here! Hawses has tromped the ground considerable. 
A gang!” He turned his head to speak down at the 
dog. “Maybe that Dan had a little party of which 
he was the guest of honor. He looked mean enough 
to have robbed a widder or orphan. Maybe some¬ 
body else finished what we started.” 

The dog yipped out a sudden warning. In the long 
reaches of the shadows 'ahead someone was watch¬ 
ing! Watching! 

“Put up your hands, Dave Deering!” 

A man stepped from the gray blackness of the 


90 


SONNY 


high bushes that had been in the rear of the cabin. 
The dog heard a clicking that he had heard many 
times before when Dave had snapped the trigger of 
his pistol without having the little brass things in their 
holes. 

The big man on the horse laughed. 

“What’s eatin’ yuh, Charlie? That voice of yours 
sounds as if yuh was sore ’cause I didn’t stop for that 
drink when yuh asked me down in Ten Mile.’’ 

“Put up your hands!” 

The dog’s growl had stopped when Dave laughed. 
It might be all some queer play that men had. But 
this was no play! The tone of voice that the man 
had used was unmistakable. 

“Now, Charlie!” drawled the slow voice of Dave 
in protest. “Yuh ain’t aimin’ to hold me up, are 
yuh?” 

“Keep that damned murderin’ dawg quiet er I’ll 
drill him!” 

There was a snarl in the words, and the tone 
sounded much like the tone Dan, the brakeman, had 
used when his hand had swung the chain that had cut 
and ripped into the flesh of the dog. 

“Jus’ let my dawg stay outta this.” Dave’s voice 
was quiet, tomb-cold. “I might stand havin’ yuh hoi’ 
me up because I got a sense of humor. But my dawg 
ain’t in a-tall!” 

“Keep them hands up!” 

The dog saw the man advance w 7 ith head thrust 
forward to peer through the increasing darkness. 

“That dawg’s in this game! I knowed if I waited 
here long enough yuh’d come back. An’ I’m needin’ 
money just now. Bad!” 

“Say, Charlie!” Simple words in the slow drawl; 


SONNY 


91 


a pause between each of Dave’s words. “I reckin 
your eyesight ain’t what it used to be. Or maybe 
these shadows over here is a lot blacker than them 
over by yuh. But I’m lnd'ianin y on this pony, with 
my gun arm wrapped right round his neck. Course 
yuh might kill him first shot. But yuh couldn’t get 
me behind him. An’ then again, all the other hawses 
in the worl’ ’d be safe after that kinda on account of 
yuh bein’ dead-like. Better put up your own hands. 
There’s a mite of light where yuh happen to be 
standin’.” 

The muscles of the dog that had been tense and 
tight for a spring relaxed as they saw the arms of the 
man rise over his head and the pistol fall to the 
ground. The dog knew that gesture. It meant that 
a man’s teeth were useless and could not bite. 

His ears caught the creaking of leather, and he 
knew that Dave had straightened up in the saddle. 
He had heard that sound many times before when 
Dave had leaned from the horse to pat his head. 

The man who had spoken to them first was still 
speaking, using words that the dog had come to 
associate with anger. He growled again through his 
teeth. He, too, could show anger. Then he heard 
Dave laugh, softly at first, followed by a noise that 
was loud and ringing. 

“Of all the plumb ree-diculous things!” The big 
man chuckled, speaking to the dog. “A man like 
Charlie, that I’ve knowed a long time, makin’ out 
to shoot me. Come on, Sonny, we’ll go close to this 
joker an’ see whether the loco weed is still stickin’ to 
his whiskers. Lucky I knowed his voice, or them 
shadows might ’a’ made me think it was that Dan 
party waiting for another shot.” 


92 


SONNY 


Sonny saw the man step back hastily as they ad¬ 
vanced. The dog leaped toward him with a bark of 
command to stay still. 

“Keep that brute off’n me!” yelled Charlie, and 
there was fright in his voice. “I’ll take lead if I have 
to, but I don’t want to be mangled by no cannibal 
dawg!” 

“Quit that!” Dave spoke with ominous calm. “I 
don’t know what yuh got against my dawg, ’cept that 
he’s got too much brains to be like most humans. But 
I won’t have him ma-lined. Nussir!” 

As they neared the man Dave’s hand swooped 
down and picked up the revolver from the ground. 

“Now give us the straight of this!” Sonny knew 
it was a command Dave uttered. 

“Needn’t be funny,” muttered Charlie sullenly. 

“Come on!” It wasn’t a command any longer; it 
was a threat. “Yuh spoke about waitin’ an’ needin’ 
money!” 

“Yuh might look on a tree er two round here,” 
growled the man. “We ain’t such a bunch of fools 
as yuh thought.” 

Dave laughed sarcastically. “What do yuh think 
of that, Sonny?” he grinned. “Tryin’ that ol’ trick 
of makin’ me look round at trees an’ things when he’s 
right at hand to be admired.” 

The dog yelped, but he did not take his attention 
from the man in front of them. Dave spoke again: 

“Pick up some of that wood an’ light a fire. We 
need a little light.” 

Sonny followed at the heels of the man as he picked 
up bits of charred wood from the ruins. When the 
tiny flame of the match had caught, and the dry wood 
began to crackle, the dog heard Dave growl out a 


SONNY 


93 


sudden oath. The big man jumped toward a tree 
on which a patch of white showed. There came a 
tearing sound, and Dave walked back to the firelight. 

As the dog saw the look that came to the face of 
the master he forgot the other man and ran to Dave. 
Dave was hurt! Some instinct told the dog that the 
white thing in Dave’s hand was responsible for the 
expression on the face of the man he loved. He 
leaped up and tried to snap at it; to rip it away from 
the master’s sight. 

Then Dave looked down at him; stared down for 
a long time in silence, and his deep eyes made the dog 
whine in fear as he saw the light which the leaping 
flames of the fire caused to show in their depths. 

“Listen, Sonny,” Dave said slowly. “I reckon 
yuh’ll be interested in what’s printed here. Yuh’ll be 
glad yuh’re a dawg an’ not a fool human without 
brains.” 

Dave read from the white thing he had torn from 
the tree. The words came as though it were hard to 
say them, and his voice was low: 

$ 5 oo—REWARD—$500 
WANTED 
For Robbery and 
MURDER! 

Dave Deering and his Vicious Dog, 

Sonny! 

On the night of May 16 last Dave Deering murdered 
Postmaster Tuttle, of Ten Mile. Murderer robbed safe 
of forty dollars in cash and twenty in stamps. 

WARNING! 

If you want to get reward, better shoot Deering’s vicious 
dog before trying to capture murderer! 

$500! $5001 


94 


SONNY 


Only the sputtering and crackling of the fire 
sounded for long minutes after Dave finished 
reading. 

“So that’s it!” muttered Dave finally, and he re¬ 
peated those words many times. Then anger in his 
great voice boomed over the hills. “Who started this 
damn’ lie? Everybody in Ten Mile knows I lef’ ol’ 
man Tuttle as near alive as he ever was. An’ this 
here little purp dawg of mine! How’d he come to be 
in a thing like this? Did he shoot oi’ man Tuttle? 
Did he steal them stamps?” 

“How’d yuh know Tuttle was shot?” asked 
Charlie craftily, and the expression on his face made 
the dog’s wiry hair bristle again. He had something 
to do with the white paper that had hurt Dave. 

“How else’d a man be killed in this country?” 

Dave walked around the fire, and his hand grasped 
the other man’s shoulder, wrenching a curse of pain 
from Charlie’s lips. 

“Give me the straight of this! Quick!” 

“Yuh threatened him, didn’t yuh?” cursed the man, 
as he tried vainly to pull away from those strong 
fingers. “Yuh said yuh’d shoot him. An’ the nex’ 
mornin’ he was foun’ that way with the safe empty. 
He had his head bashed in with a gun butt and marks 
on his throat we couldn’t quite account for till we got 
here to the end of the trail. Mebby wouldn’t a 

knowed then save for luck. Dan Dugan-” 

Charlie Meeks, once son-in-law of the murdered man, 
admittedly needing five hundred dollars, glared down 
at Sonny. 

Dave’s gun hand wagged impatiently. “The rest 
of it!” he commanded. “Come on!” 

“Well, as I was saying, when we got here, some- 



SONNY 


95 


how Dan Dugan, as had just hit town the day before 
had joined up. He had a crease mark in his head, 
an’ his arm was all chewed up by this here dawg. He’d 
started fer the hills to prospec’, an’ he come up t’ the 
winder quiet while yuh was puttin’ them stamps in a 
cache under the floor. He knowed that meant a 
post-office robbery, an’ he got the drop on yuh. He’d 
ha’ nabbed yuh, too, ef the dog hadn’t got him when 
he wasn’t watchin’ an’ give yuh a chance t’ use yer 
gun. We knowed then what them marks on ol’ 
Tuttle’s throat was. I guess that cur is just about as 
much a murderer as yuh are yerself. But yer trail 
fooled us. Yer slick on hidin’ in the hills, ain’t yuh? 
But I knowed yuh’d come back here some day, so I 
waited. An’ ef I hadn’t been watchin’ the dawg 
more’n I was yuh, I’d took yuh back!” 

“The lyin’ houn’!” burst out Dave wrathfully. 
“Saved his own worthless skin that-a-way, eh? Saw 
me puttin’ them stamps under the floor! Likely as 
not yuh found ’em there. Sure! So that’s why he 
was so anxious to get over the hills. He looked like 
a murderer! The dawg beater! Oughta spotted 
him in this here soon as I see my dawg’s name on this 
here poster. He was the on’y one ever heard it—” 

“Yuh can’t put it on him!” sneered the man. 

But Dave didn’t hear. He stood beside the fire, 
with his pistol dangling loosely in his left hand. The 
dog rubbed his nose against the cold hardness of the 
muzzle and looked up at his master. It was good to 
know that Dave’s teeth were where he could use them. 
His teeth, too, were ready and waiting for their 
command. 

The big man looked down at him. His hand raised 


96 


SONNY 


slowly and shoved the pistol into its holster, then the 
fingers pulled at the dog’s ear. 

“They’ve got yuh down for a killer, boy,” he said, 
in that slow, husky voice that seemed to hurt him. 
“The kindest, gentlest pal a man ever had. It’s a 
case of give a dog a bad name, Sonny, an’ it looks like 
we’re both dawgs together!” 

His big shoulders straightened as he pulled his 
hand away from the dog’s ears, and Sonny could see 
him lift his head and look out toward where the 
moon was beginning to silver the desert. 

“By gosh, I’m glad I am a dawg!” he said quietly. 
“ ‘Cause then I’m honest an’ on the level with the 
work!” 

His fingers toyed with the dog’s ear, and Sonny 
looking up, saw that the wide shoulders had dropped, 
as they always did when the big man was tired. 

“The dawg with a bad name ain’t got much chance 
’cept by fightin’ for what he lost. Get yore hawss, 
Charley; I’m goin’ back with yuh.” 

The dog’s eyes watched everything. They saw the 
face of the strange man light up for an instant with a 
smile. They saw the face of Dave, hard and set, and 
his shoulders were tired. There was something wrong; 
something very wrong. He could not understand it, 
and he whimpered with sudden fear because of the 
thing he could not comprehend. 

“It’s all right, son,” murmured the big man. 
“Everything’ll be fine tuh-morra. I’ll fix that houn’ 
when I get to Ten Mile!” 

The dog yelped in sudden joy. What if he didn’t 
know the meaning of it all? The big man said it was 
all right. That made it so. He frisked around 
Dave’s legs. He ran around the pony’s hoofs, bark- 


SONNY 


97 


ing to Pete the news that they were going on again, 
the three of them. Sonny saw the other man come 
back, and he was on a horse. 

Dave put his hand on the pommel of Pete’s saddle. 
The dog barked joyously. The master swung around 
and stared down at him. So long did that stare con¬ 
tinue that Sonny shifted nervously, and a whine choked 
up his throat. He had done no wrong! Then Dave’s 
big arms swooped down and gathered him up against 
the wide chest and held him tight. 

“Yuh’re goin’ to be a good purp dawg and stay 
right here till I come back. Won’t be later’n tuh- 
morra. A dawg-dawg with a bad name ain’t got the 
chancet a man-dawg has. He can’t talk on’y in his 
own way, an’ that makes fools which can’t understand 
on’y think he’s real bad. I’m afraid to take yuh 
back there, son, where a coward’d take a shot at yuh 
from behind. ’Tain’t taught to a lot of men to 
understand that a dawg’s the humanest thing there 
is. Y pile of people don’t think a dawg’s worth a 
square deal. So I’m leavin’ yuh, Sonny, boy, till tuh- 
morra.” 

Up to the saddle swung Dave. The dog stood still 
and watched him. The brain that was usually so 
keen and alert seemed strangely numb. There had 
been many familiar words in Dave’s talk, for he had 
spoken many of those things before in the days and 
nights they had been together. But there was one 
word that wasn’t right. It couldn't be right. Stay! 

“So long, dawg, on’y stay till tuh-morra, boy!’’ 

Stay! 

It was true! Pete was starting. The dog leaped 
after him, and his bark was joyous. He refused to 


98 


SONNY 


understand. Dave wouldn’t leave him behind. He 
nipped at the leather stirrups in play. 

“Lay down, Sonny!” The voice was quiet, but the 
tone was one that the dog could never pretend to 
misunderstand. He dropped as though he had been 
shot. “That’s a good boy.” Dave’s voice was 
husky again, and Sonny wondered if it hurt the big 
man like the whimper that sounded in his own throat. 
“See yuh tuh-morra.” 

Dave was ten feet away. Twenty. Now at a 
turn in the trail that led to the desert below them. 
He turned in the saddle. Sonny leaped to his feet and 
started after him. 

“Stay there, boy—won’t be long.” 

There it was again. That terrible word which 
hurt worse than Dan’s kicks or the ripping chain that 
had beaten him. Dave was leaving him—alone. 
What difference did it make that it was only till to¬ 
morrow? There could be no to-morrow without 
Dave. The horses were out of sight. But the dog’s 
.eyes were on the trail; the trail that was empty. He 
crawled forward an inch on his belly. Then a foot. 
Two feet. 

Far down the hillside Dave came into sight again. 
The dog stood on his four legs. His voice rose in a 
cry of infinite pleading. But the man did not turn. 
LI e went on. On! 

Down in the desert the moon was high. Two 
moving specks cast their ants’ shadows. The bushes 
around the dog were touched with the magic white¬ 
ness of night. Sonny could see far with his bright, 
keen eyes. 

The world was such a big place! But why should 


SONNY 


99 


it be? There was only the awful emptiness. There 
was no w T orld that did not hold Dave. The specks 
were gone. Down below him the sand stretched out 
in limitless miles. Dave had passed over that sand. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ryTAY! 

. X A command that should be obeyed. But 
Dave was down there somewhere. Perhaps 
for once in his life Dave didn't know. The primeval 
thing that was tearing at his vitals told him to go! 
Go! And the master had said Stay! Stay! Dave 
couldn’t know—this time. Always before he had 

understood. But now—now- The white thing 

he had torn from the tree had so changed him. The 
white thing was responsible. No doubt of it. It 
had made the master different. A dog knew better 
than he. A dog that loved the master before his face 
was drawn and white as the thing that had changed 
it, before he had talked in that solemn commanding 
tone to stay. Without doubt it was that white thing 
that had caused all the trouble. That had made 
Dave say: “Stay! Stay!” 

By the side of the dead fire embers Sonny found 
the fluttering placard. His paws ground it into the 
earth. His teeth ripped it into fragments and tossed 
the fragments to the wind. Then his voice lifted, 
loud and strident, in a bark of triumph to all the 
world. He had destroyed the thing that had made 
Dave tell him to stay. Things were all right. 

Down the winding, steep trail he loped with all 
the power of his hardened legs. Out into the desert, 
where the moon was bright. On and on he ran. The 
instinct of a thousand years guided him. The love of 
the willing slave for its master kept him right. 

100 


■4 



SONNY 


I 


101 


His feet sank into the deep sand. It swirled up 
into his nose and eyes, blinding, choking. He 
staggered through sage that whipped at him in a vain 
effort to make him halt. The shiny, brown swifts ran 
into his path. A rattler made fear grip his heart. 
But he would not stop. The whole world lay ahead 
of him. 

Cactus spurs, hidden in the sand, stung his feet and 
brought the blood. At the crest of a great dune 
raised by the hands of the wind he spun crazily and 
rolled over and over till he landed at the bottom in a 
dazed heap of dizziness. For minutes he ran blindly 
in ever-widening circles. Then something inside of 
him said that Dave was ahead. So he ran straight, 
always straight, because of a guide he did not under¬ 
stand or know; a guide that only the One who has 
put great love into the world can ever explain. 

The shimmering steel things that stretched their 
ribboned path to the east and the west showed in the 
'distance. He followed them, because he knew them. 
It was there that he had found Dave. Lights flared 
their yellow splotches in the distance. The dog knew 
that lights meant men. And men meant Dave! 

He limped painfully past a dark bulk of building 
that was beside the steel things, and went slowly 
toward the first lights. He did not want to see men. 
He only wanted to see Dave. If he could only hear 
the voice of the big man, with its deep-toned sounds 
of pleasure! If he could only tell the master that 
the white thing had been torn to pieces and could not 
worry him again nor make him feel sad! 

There was a place just ahead from which light 
streamed in volumes; more light than he had seen 
since he had come into this great new world. He 


102 


SONNY 


was cautious as he approached it. Dave might not 
be there, and he might be delayed. Then he heard 
loud words: 

“Like a lamb Dave come! He did! Ho! Ho! 
Say, Steve, can’t yuh dig up ’nother can of that there 
real alcohol on the five hundred. No moonshine 
tonight.” 

The man who had been at the burned shack spoke. 
The man who had taken Dave away from him. He 
was talking of Dave. The big man must be in there. 
Still, the dog hesitated. There had been a quality in 
the laugh he didn’t quite understand. 

“Oughta got that damn’ dog!” growled another 
man, and every separate hair on the dog’s body 
straightened. 

That was Dan! The brakeman who had kicked 
him from the train! The man who had tried to 
hurt Dave in the shack when the dog had laid on his 
master’s gun. 

“He won’t bother nobody. Charlie says Dave tol’ 
him to stay there till he come back. He’ll get fat 
doin’ that, I’ll tell the world!” 

Raucous laughter that jazzed out over the sand 
dunes and sage brush to be lost in a desert reverbera¬ 
tion. There was some vague menace in the words 
that the dog could not understand. There seemed to 
be a word or two he had heard before and should 
know. He seemed to sense that he would have known 
them if Dave had spoken. His voice told so much 
more than any words ever could. But in the dog’s 
brain something told him these men didn’t expect 
Dave to return to the dog that had been told to wait. 

“Tried to put it on me, too!” came the voice of 
hated Dan. 


SONNY 


103 


“We know yuh, Dan, an’ it’s a mighty game guy 
that’ll try t’ put it over Dave Deering, b’lieve me. 
or man Tuttle took a chance kiddin’ him that the 
rest of us wasn’t hankerin’ after. Not none!” 

There seemed to be many men, all talking together. 
But Dave wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be there, any¬ 
way, if Dan was. Dave knew that the brakeman had 
kicked the dog from the train. He couldn’t be 
friends with a man he hated. 

The dog started to turn away from the door. 
There were many other lights to be investigated. 

“Here’s how!” roared Dan again. “We pulled 
Dave Deering’s teeth!” 

That last word spun the dog around with a growl. 
Teeth! Dave Deering’s teeth! He knew what that 
meant. 

“Took ’em plumb right off’n him!” shouted the 
voice of the man who had gone away with Dave. 

These men had taken the thing that hung at Dave’s 
side; the thing that meant protection and life. Dave 
was in danger. His teeth were gone! 

The growl sounded louder, and ended in a snap¬ 
ping bark. The dog jumped toward the yellow patch 
of light under the door. Dave needed him! Needed 
him! 

“There’s that dog!” 

Dan said that! Yelled it as he swung from the 
crowd and pulled at the leather thing at his hip. The 
dog, ready teeth bared, leaped toward him. The 
animal did not know that other hands were swinging 
toward other hips. He did not care that the clatter 
of the chairs and tables meant that men were hem¬ 
ming him in on all sides. He only knew that Dan 
was in front of him, and that Dan had somehow hurt 


104 


SONNY 


Dave. The dog’s leap beat the man’s hand by a 
fraction of a second. The hard jaws gripped at the 
wrist and hung with the full weight of the animal’s 
body. It was no weak puppy teeth which had only 
tasted milk which now tore through skin to crunch 
the bones beneath. All the power and strength of 
that wonderful mouth was in the bite. 

His body swung against Dan’s as the cursing ex- 
brakeman screamed with the rage and pain and vainly 
fought to shake him off. A strange exultation filled 
Sonny’s heart as he heard the cries of the man he 
hated. There were other cries, too, a wild pande¬ 
monium that he neither heard nor heeded. 

He knew that the men had crowded forward, then 
back. But he did not know that he held his life in 
the grip of his teeth. A score of gun muzzles moved 
as he moved. A score of pistols were silent only be¬ 
cause his body and the body of Dan were one. A 
bullet for the dog was more likely to kill the man. 

Dan spun drunkenly around the floor. His fist 
beat down on the square, hard head of the dog. But 
the blows were weak with the pain of those awful, 
crushing teeth. From one side of the room to the 
other they went. The dog, even in the rage that 
blotted everything but Dan from his mind, seemed 
to sense his danger by some mastering instinct. His 
body continually twisted and writhed. Now this side! 
Now that! Always moving in front of the man 
whose wrist he was crushing. 

And that same instinct (or perhaps God put a 
thought in his head as many men say He does in the 
heads of dogs), told him that the grip was weakening 
and that his only safety lay in the darkness outside. 
It wasn’t safety so much, either. It was Dave. He 


SONNY 


105 


hadn’t found his master, and unless he got away 
quickly he never would find him. Darkness was the 
thing! Darkness and his own legs. Dan carried him 
over near the door. Lurching, swaying, they got 
nearer; nearer. The dog felt the wood press against 
his back. It gave behind him, and he knew it was 
the high swing doors under w T hich he had come. The 
teeth let go. With the same movement that landed 
him on all his four feet he whirled and became the 
streak of agility that the weeks in the mountains had 
taught him. 

Behind him he could hear the roar of guns. He 
knew that men’s teeth were trying to bite him; men’s 
teeth that bit from afar off. There was a buzzing in 
his ears, a sharp, sizzing zip that he thought was one 
of the queer things he had chased in the mountains 
and had hurt him so when he caught it. Around the 
corner of the shack he dashed. Another corner. He 
must hide. A small patch of blackness that was 
more dense than the rest showed at the third 
corner. He dove for it. The rough floor boards of 
the shack over him scratched and tore at his back, 
and the fine desert sand filled his eyes as he pulled 
himself forward on his belly. 

Safe! Wedged in the small space under the cabin, 
he panted softly. Outside the running continued. 
Shouts passed from one man to another. The pistols 
barked as men’s imaginations saw the shape of a dog 
they hunted in each black shadow. There came a 
fusillade of shots. A cry of triumph that changed to 
sudden rage. 

“It’s Jim Jones’ dawg!” he heard someone shout. 

Men came running toward his hiding place. Their 
heavy feet shook the sand under him. 


106 


SONNY 


“He went down this way!” said one. 

“He ain’t a dawg! He’s a devil!” another cursed. 
“Smashed Dan’s wrist complete!” 

“Under one uh these shacks! That’s where he is!” 

Men stopped so close that he could hear their 
heavy breathing. Big boots kicked at the edge of the 
shack and made the floor boards quiver as they 
pressed against the dog’s back. A growl rumbled in 
his throat, but the futile kicking that was intended to 
scare him into showing himself drowned the sound. 

“Reach under there an’ rake the whole thing over 
with your gun,” suggested a man. 

“That’s the stuff!” came the chorus. 

The kicking stopped. For a minute after there 
was silence in the group. 

“Go ahead, Joe,” somebody said. 

“What?” came an angry voice. “Me? Me reach 
under there! If he is there, d’yuh think I aim t’ get 
my arm chawed ofl? He ain’t a common dawg! 
He’s a wild cat! An’ there ain’t enough room under 
there anyway. He’s big as a lion!” 

The kicking on the floor grew louder. 

“Guess that’s right!” was a drawled admission. 
“There’s on’y a couple of inches. He’s scuttled down 
toward the jail, where the sheriff’s got Dave.” 

Hoarse growls greeted the conclusion. 

“Oughta go down an’ get ’em both! Damn ’em!” 

“Bill’s guardin’ him pretty close,” one man hesi¬ 
tated. “An’ he’s as good a shot as Deering himself. 
Bill won’t stand for no funny work!” 

“Maybe he’ll have to stan’ fer it!” 

The loud talking ceased. The dog could hear 
hoarse whispers caused by the last comment. Sud¬ 
denly it occurred to him that the men were talking of 


SONNY 


107 


Dave. He heard the name of his master mentioned 
once, twice—a half dozen times. There was a 
sinister quality in the tones that made his ears lay 
back and his wiry hairs pull at the skin of his body. 

He must find Dave! 

Sonny realized vaguely that all the shouting had 
ceased. There was no more roaring of the guns. As 
the noise had meant danger to him, now he under¬ 
stood with a quickening of instinct that the silence 
held danger for the god he loved. The men who had 
stopped at his haven of safety walked away, mutter¬ 
ing hoarsely. 

With his front paws digging into the loose sand the 
dog pulled his body into the open. The talking be¬ 
came loud as he emerged, and to his ears came the 
clinking of glasses. He knew they had gone back to 
the place where he had been. 

Down the street were other lights, other swing 
doors. But now the dog knew— knew —that the 
master was in none of them. From each one he could 
hear the same sort of talk; a talk that did not strike 
the ears of the dog as words, but merely as tone that 
told his brain there was need of hurry. 

He must find Dave! 

Keeping to the dark corners, every keen sense alert 
for the first warning of danger, Sonny threaded his way 
along. Each house that was dark was sniffed at, but 
there was no scent of the big man who had left him. 
Once he crouched low in a shadow, scarcely daring to 
breathe, as a crowd of men swarmed from a place 
across from him and ran down toward the shack 
where he had met Dan. Their hurrying told him he 
must hurry, too. 

But there were so many houses. So many places 


108 


SONNY 


to be investigated. Dave must be in one of them. 
A Dave without teeth because they had taken them 
away. A Dave who needed protection and help. A 
Dave who needed him! 

Suddenly, from the dirt under his feet, or from 
the air around his head came the scent of the master. 
It was as though the whole other world of terror and 
noise had been swept aside. Only the man he loved 
was in it, filling its bigness with his presence. 

He did not heed the shadows of protection now. 
He ran down the street. His nose wasn’t close to the 
ground. There was no need of that. Dave was 
around him, over him, everywhere. A sharp yelp of 
exultation and joy sounded, but the noise that was 
growing louder back of him drowned it. 

He had found Dave! 

The last dark cabin was behind him. Far ahead, 
over a long stretch of sandy trail that led to the moun¬ 
tains, was another shack, and there was a light from a 
window that was cut into curious long streaks, and a 
long patch of light that the dog knew came from an 
open door. And in that door stood a man! 

The dog barked out in sudden gladness. The man 
in the doorway swung his gun to his side in that ges¬ 
ture the dog had come to know so well. 

“Down, Sonny, lie down!” That was Dave’s voice! 
Dave’s voice coming from somewhere inside, with the 
sharp, imperative command that Sonny had heard but 
once before. That was when he had crouched over 
the gun in the mountain cabin to hide it from Dan. 
The dog dropped like a shot, and the darkness 
swallowed him up and made him part of it. 

His bright eyes could see the man in the door 
swinging the gun muzzle in search of him. Then 


SONNY 


109 


Dave spoke in that slow drawl that held so much 
meaning. 

“Yuh surely ain’t afeared of a leetle purp dawg, 
sheriff?” The drawl stopped. “Quiet, Sonny!” 

The dog had been ready to yelp again and to leap 
in an ecstasy of joy. But he lay still, content. 

He heard the growling answer of the man in the 
door, and Sonny wondered why all voices but Dave’s 
should have that grating quality. 

“Likely enough he’s what started all that hell down 
there.” 

“Maybe so,” Dave said slowly. “The kinda men 
that’ll jump a man who’s tryin’ to get a square deal 
usually ain’t got nerve enough to stand up against a 
white dawg that’s so game he couldn’t be a man 
misfit.” 

“Never mind about that square-deal thing! Yuh’ll 
get a chance to prove that at the trial. Jus’ keep that 
damn’ dawg away from me, that’s all!” 

“ ’Cordin’ to the hooch that’s makin’ all the 
noise down below, I won’t stand much chance of a 
trial, sheriff. There’s a lynchin’ cornin’.” 

“I’ll ’tend to that!” snapped the man at the door. 

Sonny saw that he had taken his hand away from 
the thing at his hip, and that his eyes no longer sought 
the shadows for the dog. The man whom Dave 
called “sheriff” was standing in the patch of light, 
looking down toward the town, where the loud talk¬ 
ing was heard plainly. Then came a crash of a pistol. 
A volley that preceded a great shout. 

“It’s on its way, Bill,” Dave said quietly. “Give 
me a gun so I’ll have a chancet, won’t yuh?” 

The tone of that last made the dog’s ears stand up. 
Dave wanted something and he wanted it very much. 


110 


SONNY 


“You shet up!” snarled the man at the door. “I’ll 
fix ’em. There’ll be no lynchin’ while I’m sheriff.” 

“You’ll stand a fine chance with a mob of about 
fifty moonshine-soaked houn’s.” 

The sheriff stepped up on the stone slab before 
the door, and looked toward the bunch of shacks. 
The noise down there was ominously loud. 

“They’ll be fifteen minutes gettin’ here, and I’ll be 
ready then,” he snapped, incisively. 

Sonny saw him go inside and reappear with a long 
thing in his hand that he caused to make a clicking 
sound like Dave’s pistol made. For a moment the 
man stood on the step examining it. He went inside, 
and the yellow patch of light disappeared from the 
doorway. 

“Do I get a gun, or do I jus’ let ’em drag me out?” 
Dave asked. 

“Ef I can’t handle ’em!” said the sheriff shortly, 
and Sonny saw that he was standing in the dark door¬ 
way again, peering through the darkness toward 
where the noise was growing each minute. 

“An’ that’ll be about ten seconds too late.” Dave 
spoke evenly; then he raised his voice to speak to the 
dog: “I guess it’s good-by, Sonny. I said when I left 
yuh that I’d come back tuh-morra. But yuh knowed 
better’n me, didn’t yuh? But there won’t be any 
comeback this time. I’m goin’ t’ stay a long while 
where I’m goin’. That Dan jasper near fixed yuh 
once before. I guess he’ll finish me this time.” 

The dog listened to each word, turning it over and 
over. Slowly he realize! what Dave was saying. 
Dan was going to do something to Dave. Hurt him 
when he got there! He was going to take Dave away 
so that he would stayl Stay! That word, with its 


SONNY 


111 


terrible tragedy, had been impressed upon the dog’s 
mind so that he would never forget it. 

u No, Sonny,” Dave’s quiet voice went on, “I ain’t 
even goin’ to get the chancet a good gun’d give me. 
They wouldn’t listen to me before, an’ now the sheriff 
won’t. We got a bad name, dawg, a bad name!” 

“Shet up!” The sheriff had stepped down from 
the stone, and all his attention was on the growing 
roar of sound below them. 

Sonny got to his four feet. He understood now that 
Dave wanted a gun; wanted the teeth that had been 
taken away from him; wanted a chance to defend 
himself. He crouched low to the ground as he went 
forward. That man standing there had the thing 
D ave wanted, and he had refused to give it. Why 
didn’t Dave come and get it? Dave was bigger than 
anything else in the world. Why didn’t he take what 
he needed? 

The dog wanted to ask this question, to bark it out 
so that the master could hear. But Dave told him to 
keep quiet. Sonny went forward a few more feet, 
his belly close to the ground. That man had some¬ 
thing Dave wanted! 

“ ’Bout three minutes of that fifteen gone, sheriff.” 

The man stood with his heels against the stone 
step. Sonny saw him plainly. He saw the thing at 
his hip that Dave wanted. Above it he saw a patch 
of white. He knew that was what he wanted. Flesh 
was there, the flesh of a man who was hurting Dave. 

Slowly, without sound, he went toward the man. 
He stopped. Crouched. Leaped! 

One startled cry rasped from the lips of the sheriff. 
Then the full bulk of the dog’s body struck his chest. 
The animal rolled over and scrambled up. 


112 


SONNY 


“Sonny!” There was fear in Dave Deering’s cry. 
“Don’t kill him!” 

The dog forgot everything but the sound of that 
voice. He ran toward it. He could see the dim out¬ 
line of the big man in the darkness, and he jumped 
toward his arms. A sudden unexpected something 
hurled him backward. 

“Sheriff!” called Dave. 

There was no reply. 

“What did yuh do, boy?” asked Dave anxiously. 
“What was it? Yuh knocked him out.” 

Sonny frisked about, trying vainly to get at the big 
man, but always there was something in his way. 

Dave swore in sudden realization. “The step must 
’a’ tripped him. His head hit the floor. He’s un¬ 
conscious.” 

The dog yelped. 

“An’ them devils cornin’!” 

Sonny’s voice stilled suddenly. He remembered 
what he had knocked the man down for. He ran back 
and tugged at the belt, just as he had tugged at 
Dave’s belt so many times before. But it was tight. 
He couldn’t budge it. He bit at the hard leather he 
knew held the gun. He shook it and worried it, 
growling his anger. Then came the thud as the 
pistol slipped to the floor. 

The dog picked it up. It hurt his teeth, just as it 
had always hurt them because it was so hard—a 
man’s teeth. Back to Dave he went, and the hard 
thing dropped at the big man’s feet. The dog saw 
him bend down and put his arm between the things 
that kept the dog away from him. 

“A gun!” he heard the big man mutter. “He 


SONNY 113 

brought me the gun. The wise little mutt! I got a 
chancet now.” 

The dog saw him straighten up and listen. The 
noise outside was loud. It didn’t seem so far away. 
There were many men. Shouting. And their pistols 
were roaring all the time. 

“Sonny!” There was the command that made the 
animal all attention. “Can yuh get the keys? Keys! 
There on a chain from his galluses! Keys! Pull ’em 
off, but don’t hurt him!” 

The dog yelped. He went back to the unconscious 
sheriff. Dave wanted something else. Something 
the man had. Keys! He had never heard that word 
before. But he must get it for Dave. A white patch 
showed. Maybe that was it. Dave had looked at a 
white thing up there in the mountains, and it had 
caused him to go away. He tore at it, and brought 
it to the big man’s feet. 

“No, Sonny.” Dave spoke hurriedly, anxiously, and 
the dog knew it was because the noise outside was so 
loud. “Not his shirt. Keys! Keys!” 

Back went the dog. In the barred cell the man 
listened and tried to peer through the darkness to 
pick out details of the black patch sprawled on the 
floor. He knew that half the time had gone before 
the lynchers could reach the jail. And he was like a 
rat in a trap with only a dog between him and death. 

Sonny came back. Dave’s hand swooped down to 
pick up the thing he dropped. And he let it go with 
an oath of disappointment. It was a plug of tobacco. 

“No, Sonny! Keys! Keys! On a chain. They 
rattle when yuh move ’em. Like this!” He twirled 
the cylinder of the pistol till it sounded like a clicking 
rattle. 


114 


SONNY 


Another yelp of understanding, and the dog went 
back. 

“Lynch him!” A pair of great lungs sent that 
yell above all other yells over the silence. Then came 
the roar of blood lust unleashed. They were coming! 
Coming 1 

“Galluses, Sonny! Galluses! That’s where the 
chain is! For God’s sake hurry!” 

The man’s ears were strained for the first faint 
rattle of the keys on their chain. But there was only 
the growing roar outside. Nearer! 

He heard the sound of the keys. They jangled out 
on the floor. 

“That’s it, boy! That’s it!” The big man’s voice 
was a prayer of thanksgiving. 

The dog ran over. But there was no sound of the 
keys now. It was a piece of the sheriff’s suspender 
he dropped outside the bars. A laugh that broke in 
the middle came from Dave. 

“No! The other! The thing that made a noise 
like my gun! Noise! Noise! Noise!” 

Now he twirled the cylinder of his pistol con¬ 
tinuously. 

“Hang the man that killed oV Tuttle!” 

The man on the floor groaned weakly. 

“Hurry, boy! Oh, boy, if you love me, hurry!” 

There came the rattling jangle of the keys as 
Sonny took them up and shook them. 

“That’s it! That’s it! Quick!” 

The man on the floor stirred. Outside there were 
many shouts. The words were no longer a jumble 
of sound. They came plainly. 

Dave heard the chain swish along the floor. Then 
the ring of the keys as they dropped outside the bars. 


SONNY 


115 


“Thank God, boy! Thank God!” 

The big man was shaking all over as he picked 
them up. Another groan came from the man 
on the floor. A movement. A weak word. The 
dog yelped joyously. He had done the right thing! 
He had done what Dave wanted him to do. He 
heard a loud click above him. Something swept him 
off his feet. Then Dave was beside him, and a funny 
door had swung open. 

“What the-” The whispered words came 

from the sheriff. He struggled to his feet. 

“Too late, Bill!” Dave spoke so fast the words 
seemed to jam together. “Jail delivery. First from 
this new tin cell that I put in my contribution for. 
Goin’ to lock you in here. It’ll take the gang a 
coupla minutes to break through.” 

He dragged the sheriff back, and the dog’s teeth 
helped. He wanted to do some more for the big 
man. He was with Dave again. They were to¬ 
gether. 

“Come on!” Dave ran to the door. 

The roar of the voices was very near. Down in 
the darkness was the blacker bulk of many running 
men. Yellow spurts of flame leaped into the air with 
the crashing reports of the pistols. 

“Got about four minutes!” Dave rasped. “Around 
back here, boy. We’ll double on ’em through the 
sage. It’ll be some more minutes before they under¬ 
stand what’s happened and the cobweb’s get outta 
the sheriff’s brain.” 

The dog ran at his heels. He frisked in front of 
him. They were together again—he and Dave. The 
big man had come back to him. His heart throbbed 
with the joy of it. His body tingled because he was 



116 


SONNY 


glad. He was the luckiest animal in all the whole 
wide world. 

They ran past the running, yelling men in the dark¬ 
ness. Back of them the roar grew in menacing 
volume, then died, only to rise again in a chorus of 
baffled rage. A pony, saddled and bridled, stood 
sleepily at a post. Dave swung to the saddle, and to¬ 
gether they ran toward the desert. As they were 
covering the miles of sand that the moon had begun 
to sheen with its silvery magic, the dog was happy 
because he was alive. It was good to be alive—with 
Dave. 


CHAPTER IX 


H ad some wide range of vision by which she 
could have seen across a continent, been given 
Mrs. Alice van Dusen as she nervously and 
indignantly paced the length of the best room in the 
best hotel in Alcatra the afternoon following her 
eccentric niece’s escape over the plains of Nevada in 
company with a wild and woolly person of the cow¬ 
boy genre of the best tradition, she would have been 
a far greater indignant matron than she was. 

Almost twenty-four hours before, she had sent her 
wire to her brother, and there had come no answer. 
Of course, Mrs. van Dusen knew that there were 
many times when her busy brother was called out of 
the city and that any personal messages which might 
come to his New York office were reserved for his 
return. She had hoped, however, that this would 
not be one of those times. She so needed him now, 
and for once the woman of whom everyone spoke 
as so self-reliant, felt helpless. Going out onto a 
prairie in search of an absconding niece was one 
thing which she had never in all her life been called 
upon to recognize as among the possibilities, and for 
once she w T as stumped. Her frowning gaze took in 
the huge flowers of the brightly red carpet which 
covered the floor of this guest room of which all 
Alcatra was proud, and wandered, unseeing, to the 
quite as beflowered washbowl and pitcher with all 
accessories which was another of the town’s prides. 

117 


118 


SONNY 


But Mrs. van Dusen had no eye either for artistic 
values, or lack of them. For once in her life, any 
room at all would have been a haven could she but 
think in peace. But there didn’t seem to be any 
peace. Why didn’t Jonathan wire, or send some¬ 
one—do something. He was so careless where 
Paula was concerned. Seemed to think the girl 

could take care of herself, and now- Her idle 

steps led her to the window from which she drew back 
one of the few pairs of lace curtains of which Alcatra 
could boast, and looked into the street. A pair of 
chafing bronchos tied to hitching posts caught her 
:eye, but her attention was turned almost immediately 
by the sound of a yip! yip! far down the dirt road 
and two men on horses who pounded hurriedly 
Alcatra-ward with wild unholy sounds. Mrs. van 
Dusen had no way of knowing that it was only exuber¬ 
ance of spirits on the part of two young prospectors 
which bade them open up their two days’ holiday in 
the small town in this fashion. She could see only 
horror—danger! Such men as these! And Paula 
out there somewhere among them! She sank into a 
patent rocker with a groan, not hearing the protesting 
creak of its short rockers. 

“Why, it’s dangerous!” she moaned aloud. 
“Positively dangerous! Oh, what shall I do!” 

But, as was before mentioned, Mrs. van Dusen’s 
fears would not have been allayed, nor her indigna¬ 
tion appeased, could she have looked into the ma¬ 
hogany and green velvet draperied office of Jonathan 
Grayson at that moment. 

Jonathan Grayson was seating himself ponder¬ 
ously in front of his wide glass-topped desk, as he 



SONNY 


119 


waved the dapper man who had entered with him 
into the leather upholstered chair which stood by it. 

“Haven’t a lot of time, Barry,” he said, as his 
hand reached out for one of the long black cigars that 
were placed in readiness, as he liked them to be, just 
as he liked all his accessories to be, in the same spots 
and ready to his hand. “But we must figure out some 
way of finding this crazy Western jasper,” he went 
on, stopping long enough to bite off the end of his 
smoke. “What can have happened to him, anyway? 
Here’s everything all ready, just waiting for his sig¬ 
natures, and here he up and-” 

The entrance of the soft-footed secretary had been 
unnoticed until she stopped beside the desk with a 
sheaf of papers and communications in her hand. 
Jonathan Grayson looked up. His big hand waved 
in a gesture of dismissal. 

“Haven’t time for those now, Miss Duncan,” he 
said peremptorily. “We’ll take them up later.” He 
turned toward his visitor. “Now, as I was saying,” 
he began, but the smooth voice of the girl interrupted 
him, as her fingers singled out a yellow envelope from 
the bunch and held it toward her employer. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Grayson,” she said, “but 
here is a telegram which has just arrived—from the 
West—I thought perhaps you might-” 

Jonathan Grayson’s hand went out for the mis¬ 
sive. What in the w r orld could Paula be wanting now. 
Why was it she never could wait to write, but kept 
telegraph wires hot whenever she did want anything. 
For a moment he scrutinized the opened telegram. 
Then a chuckle started; a chuckle which ended in a 
bellowed laugh. Fie held the yellow sheet out toward 
his visitor as he waved away his secretary in a further 




120 


SONNY 


'dismissal. Miss Duncan went through the door and 
closed it softly. She stood there a moment wonder- 
ingly. 

“Well, what do you think of that!’’ she commented 
to nobody or nothing in particular unless it was the 
steel engraving of Lincoln which adorned the wall 
above her. “That girl can do anything she pleases 
and he doesn’t even care!” 

Inside the office, Jonathan Grayson was chuckling 
as he looked in his familiar way over the tops of his 
glasses as the legal Mr. Barry read. 

“What do you think of it?” said Jonathan 
Grayson. 

But William Barry was reading with more alarm 
than his employer. And this, that he read, did seem 
a bit concerting: 

PAULA ESCAPED FROM TRAIN. KIDNAPPED BY A 
COWBOY IN HIGH POWERED MACHINE AND TAKEN 
INTO THE DESERT. NO TRACE. COME AT ONCE. PET 
GONE TOO. 

ALICE VAN DUSEN 

Mr. Barry’s eyes looked their query as he glanced 
at the big mining man. Grayson’s head shook sagely 
as he continued to chuckle. 

“Must be a bit of a shock to the old girl—my 
sister, I mean,” he informed. “What’s the child up 
to, too-” • 

“But kidnapped!” exclaimed Barry, New York- 
bred Barry who had no personal knowledge save that 
gained through the cinema and half-forgotten books 
of the West read in boyhood. “Don’t you think you 
ought to-?” He finished lamely, hesitantly. 

Grayson tossed the telegram on the desk and 
turned about in a business-like way. 





SONNY 


121 


“There is another party to be heard from, Barry, 
my lad,” he informed patiently. “Guess I’ll keep my 
shirt on until I hear from the young lady in the case. 
Must be hearing soon, now—when she finds that 
‘Pet’ mut she’s likely gone after. And now,” and 
once more his face became business-like, “tell me just 
what you’ve learned—what you’ve done.” 

With non-committal countenance, the lawyer took 
up his business narrative. 

“As I explained to you, Mr. Grayson,” he began 
professionally, “this was a matter that required some 
concentration and acumen in the handling. You’ve 
made no mistake in acquiring the Twin Wells Mine— 
that’s assured—just as you know it to be. But that 
tax corporation act out there would eat up profits for 
some time to come. What I’ve finally managed is 
this, and it is hardly as easy as you think, and will 
quite account for the time that has been consumed in 
the handling. In the bordering state, capital has a 
better chance. I am reliably informed that were your 
company owning the Twin Wells Mine to be in¬ 
corporated in the state in which it is located that 
neither you nor the man who discovered it could 
escape paying at least a hundred thousand a year 
taxes on it. A dummy company, therefore, has been 
the solution, with you and the original owner, of 
course, as real owners. I think you will find every¬ 
thing correct here-” 

He held out a packet of papers which the old 
mining man took and scanned through his thick-lensed 
glasses. Occasionally he nodded, but said nothing a9 
he went through figure after figure. Barry, watching 
him, was silent for a time, then he offered: 

“Sorry it has taken so much time, but you must 





122 


SONNY 


realize that such matters are not accomplished in a 
moment-” 

“Hmmph!” muttered Grayson with a satisfied 
sigh. “Damned good job you’ve done, Barry. It 

has taken a time, but-” and something like a sigh 

escaped him as his head nodded, “looks like it would 
take one heck of a time longer if we can’t locate that 
fool prospector who’s gone and got himself lost in 
the wilds again somewhere-’’ 

“Then if you don’t find him, you won’t-” be¬ 

gan the lawyer wonderingly. Sometimes he could 
not account for the vagaries of this astute business 
man, so business-like at most times, and then with 
that queer streak of sentimentality that would creep 
up ever so often to belie his earned reputation of 
hardness. Grayson’s lips shut with a snap. 

“Nothing doing—nothing!” he bit off. “Until 
that crazy fool or his heirs are found. He owns 
fifty-five shares, and the Twin Wells will lie as idle as 
Mt. Popocatapetl, for all I’m concerned, until he’s 
found to claim them.” 

For minutes after the elaborate departure of the 
dapper lawyer, Jonathan Grayson sat strumming on 
his desk, thinking, thinking, of the mine, and its lost 
owner, for one thing; then, as his eyes roved to the 
yellow slip on the polished surface of his desk, of 
the girl out there in the West some place, and the 
worried aunt who sought her. A boyishly mischiev¬ 
ous grin spread over his features as he fingered the 
slip. 

“Little rascal!” he chided. “Now, wdiat’s she up 
to!” 

But as the hours of the day went by and there was 
no word from Paula, that word he had felt so sure 






SONNY 


123 


would come by way of explanation from her, the 
father’s grin grew less and less mischievous; lost its 
boyish aspect. A line or two of worry made their 
way between his heavy graying eyebrows. Night 
came and no word. For the first time that he could 
remember in a long time, Jonathan Grayson, healthy 
animal that he was, found that sleep would not come 
to his eyes. Even when he forced himself into a 
light doze it was only to be tortured with pictures of 
cactused plains, of a lost girl in a white desert, bravely 
fighting her way toward safety after escaping from 
one danger—for well Jonathan Grayson knew that 
if Paula should learn that her escort was not to be 
trusted, that she herself could be trusted to get away, 
somehow. 

The clock in the great tower down the avenue had 
just finished chiming its eleven o’clock notes when the 
big man threw back the enfolding covers and sprang 
into the middle of the room. His sharp imperative 
ring at the bell brought his sleepy-eyed Jap man 
servant on the run. 

“Ito!” commanded the master. “Pack me a bag, 
and be quick about it. Then call Thomas with the 
car. Pve got to make the midnight for the West!” 

And so it was that while Paula Grayson slept the 
peaceful sleep of childhood in the small shack that 
had been turned over for her exclusive use, while her 
host and her guide kept vigil under the stars, the 
swiftly turning wheels of the midnight express were 
carrying herward the father whom she had been too 
busy for once in her life to inform as to her move¬ 
ments—such chance for information, as it was, having 
been impossible unless she went miles out of her way 



124 


SONNY 


from the place where she thought her dog might 
be. 

All day she had ridden in the white alkali dust of 
the desert country with her hastily chosen champion 
at the wheel of his low-swung desert car. It had been 
a bit of a disappointment to Bill when he had dis¬ 
covered that the fair lady who had so imperatively 
flung herself into his car and on his protection had 
done nothing wrong, but he had made up his mind 
to see the matter through. 

He had not had time for much save to see her wild 
look and hear her whispers of “Hurry! Hurry!” 
when she had climbed into his car back there at the 
small station. And hurry he did. He found himself 
whispering words of cheer and comfort. 

“Don’t you worry none, ma’am!” he cheered. 
“This old boat’ll beat anything this side of the desert, 
and besides, they’ll have some time before they-all 
kin git another car, and we’ll be safe on our way to 
the foothills by then.” Something, as he glanced at 
the girl sitting beside him as the car kicked up the 
white, choking dust, made him hesitate to ask her 
what it was she had done, just how she had made her 
[escape and what she was running away from. He 
knew there could be no romance about it, for any 
eloping young lady would hardly be likely to light out 
from a train and make for the first automobile she 
could find, begging to be taken away. There were 
[easier ways than that. 

Hesitatingly at last he spoke. 

“Might I be askin’,” he inquired half timorously 
—it was a most unusual experience for Bill to be 
hastening across the desert with a beautiful young 
woman beside him, a young woman about whom 


SONNY 


125 


hung the mystery of ill deeds which it seemed some¬ 
how she never could have been guilty of—“just who 
we might be escapin’ from, an’-” 

“It—it was an—an ogre!” breathed Paula Gray¬ 
son from behind the folds of her veil with which she 
was protecting her throat from the choking alkali. 
“Oh, do hurry! Please!” 

“Yas’m!” Bill let out another notch and the car 
shot up a geyser of white dust. He did not repeat 
his query, nor was it until, far out across the white 
ribbon of road, she looked back and with a sigh of 
relief saw the last bit of the disappearing smoke of 
the train from which she had made her hurried de¬ 
parture, that the girl herself ventured any in¬ 
formation. 

She settled back with a relieved gesture, and put 
out one hand to touch the arm of the man who drove 
her. 

“Now,” she said, with a deep breath of rapture, 
“now I can find my Pet!” 

Hit between the eyes as he was by the last word, 
the girl’s champion could only choke as he nodded. 
But he ventured a glance at the girl beside him. 

What—who was she? Was she- But, no—as his 

;eyes caught the mirthful glint in her own behind the 
veil, he knew there was nothing the matter with her 
mind. 

“No more than with most wimmen’s,” he told him¬ 
self with the mental reservation of those whose 
knowledge of the opposite sex is small. “There’s 
never no tellin’ what they’ll-” 

But the pressure of the small fingers on his arm 
completed the conquest that the friendly glance had 
started. His hands steadied the wheel that that 





126 


SONNY 


momentary idea had let stray a bit. She was speak¬ 
ing, softly, cooingly. 

“You’ll help me find him, won’t you?” she begged. 
“Oh, say you will!” 

Bill’s figure straightened up a bit. 

“Yas’m,” he said. He was not a man to waste 
words. “Now you jest tell me what kind of a lookin’ 
jasper he is, and-” 

The girl’s laughter pealed out over the flying sage 
brush and cactus. Three inquisitive prairie dogs that 
had come out of their holes at the purr of the coming 
car, scurried back at the unaccustomed sound. 

“Oh! Oh!” she choked, appreciatively. “He isn’t 
a man—my Pet—he’s a dog! Do I look as if I’d go 
chasing over the desert after—a man!” 

“Yas’m—no’m, I mean,” breathed the cowman 
uneasily. 

And so it was, that after Paula Grayson had told 
her story to an appreciative, and easily-made-loyal 
audience of one, that Bill found himself playing the 
modern desert knight to a lady in distress—he who 
had come down that morning to the small station 
where he found her to get a certain peculiarly shaped 
basket that was to have been left there for him; he 
who knew that back on the Mura ranch there were 
some warm and thirsty cow-punchers waiting for 
what he would bring, and wait in vain; he who didn’t 
care a hang, after he had looked into Paula Gray¬ 
son’s eyes. 

It was Paula’s own idea that they should follow the 
railroad. She felt so sure that someone would prob¬ 
ably be able to give her some hint as to where her 
dog had been taken. Somewhere, that thieving 
brakeman must have dropped off. Somebody, some- 



SONNY 


127 


where, out here where people were so few, must have 
seen or heard something. Bill grinned and shook his 
head when she told her plan. Better than she he 
knew how many miles of track they might follow be¬ 
fore they would see anyone, outside of the few 
scattered box stations, and it was unlikely any man 
beating it away with a valuable dog would care to be 
seen with it. He shook his head; but he went on. 
Wherever Guinevere pointed the way, there he was 
glad to either lead or follow. 

Paula Grayson’s mouth was drooping, and there 
was a sad little look in her eyes, as the dusty pair 
lunged into Mineral Springs. The sun, beginning to 
set, cast its first purpling rays over the desert. But she 
still had a laugh in her at the pretentiousness of the 
name of the small place, with its one-lunged station, 
its water-tank, its one shack of a general store, and 
the few board shacks that were dignified by the name 
of homes. 

“Where are the springs?” she queried of her dusty 
guide. 

His smile was humorously twisted as he answered. 

“Likely in somebuddy’s bed, if he’s in luck,” he 
told her. “Mought be made of most any old kind 
of mineral, too.” 

It was here, though, that the girl got her first bit 
of hope. It seemed to the ancient station master that 
he had seen a jasper git off the train some time— 
maybe a day or two ago—mebby a week, he couldn’t 
jest remember—and it seemed the feller had a dog. 
No, as he shook his head, he couldn’t jest remember 
what kind of a dog ’twas—dogs wuz dogs, for all of 
him—but it seemed this here feller was bound for the 
foothills up Pine Tree Hill way, and- 



128 


SONNY 


Tired as she was, nothing could persuade the girl 
to delay. She was like a young hound on the scent. 
Nothing could stop her. There was a worried 
furrow on her guide’s face as his practiced eye took in 
the sun that dropped more sharply every minute, 
knowing, as he did, how it went down with a sudden¬ 
ness that was almost a crash out there in the sage 
country, and the blackness of night that followed 
without twilight interval. 

“Don’t you think, ma’am,” he demurred, “that 
we’d best be stoppin’ here the night. A1 here kin 
fix you up in the station—he’s got a right good cot 
and a wash bowl and everythin’—and like if you 

don’t you'll have to sleep on the ground, and-” 

He shook his head as his eye glanced at her slender 
girlish figure, took in all the details that told so 
plainly of a life accustomed only to the soft things. 

“We can keep going, can’t we?” she asked, sharply, 
peremptorily. “You’ll be well paid, never fear-” 

Bill’s head bowed without a word. There was 
nothing in the way he turned his car toward the foot¬ 
hills that spoke of the hurt that had been caused by 
his lady who spoke to her willing knight of money. 

They had not been gone two hours before Paula 
Grayson knew that she had overestimated her 
strength. They had stopped at a spring where they 
had eaten the food that Bill’s precaution had seen to 
getting back in Mineral Springs, and it was the girl’s 
urge to go on! On! But there was something in the 
spruce-filled air, in the quiet and languor of the foot¬ 
hills that so strongly sent forth their soporific urge 
that, in spite of all her determination, Paula Grayson 
felt her eyelids shut again and again as their car 
wound itself upward. Once she thought she would 




SONNY 


129 


be compelled to tell her guide that she must get out 
and take a nap, anywhere at all. The little laugh that 
came with that wakened her for a moment. She was 
thinking what Aunt Alice would say to that—her 
sleeping on the ground w r hile a man she had never 
seen until that day watched over her from his seat 
in the desert car. Then he was speaking. 

“Hold on a bit, ef ye kin, ma’am,” he was sooth¬ 
ing. “I’ve got a friend up here a ways who’s got a 
shack. Like as not he kin fix you up.” 

And Jim Colby, bachelor, afraid of women for the 
most part, contented in the shack home he had built 
himself years before when he had come to the foot¬ 
hills with an incurable prospector’s fever, did fix 
them up. That in the fixing it required that two men 
sleep in their blankets out under the tall trees and the 
girl sleep in the crazy-looking prospector’s cot with 
its tattered covers, meant nothing to her. Sleep was 
all that counted. Sleep from which there was no 
move or waking moment until the dawn streaked in 
through the window and Paula Grayson sat up and 
reached for the eiderdown comforter that was not 
there, and her eyes strayed, in quick remembrance, to 
the stove with its dead embers, and the marks of 
masculine housekeeping spread about. 

Breakfast was earlier than she had ever known it 
—and better, she assured her host, with that quick 
uplifting and drooping of her eyes that had in her 
short life already caused much havoc. It did not 
fail of its purpose with the mountaineer who could 
not quite explain that quick contraction about his 
heart, and only knew that he wished there was some¬ 
thing else he could give this woman from the other 


130 


SONNY 


world. And then they were off again. This time 
Paula spoke decidedly for the railroad. 

“I had a dream,” she announced determinedly, 
“and I know I’ll find Pet somewhere down there. 
Thank you so much for wanting to help me hunt up 
here, Mr. Colby, but I think I’ll hunt down 
there-” 

And Bill, smiling out of the corner of his mouth, 
spoke whisperingly to big Jim Colby as he poured the 
water into his radiator. 

“Wimmen!” he said philosophically, “what can you 
do about ’em?” 

“Only what they say, I ’low,” grinned Jim Colby, 
out of his lack of experience, in no wise recognizing 
the wisdom of his one remark. 

It may be that had Paula Grayson known just how 
long her quest was to be, or into what it would lead 
her, that her departure in search of Pet might not 
have been quite so precipitate. Then again, she 
might, as she ever afterward vowed, have done ex¬ 
actly the same thing. 

That first night’s experience in the Colby shack 
was the beginning of many such. The only one, 
though, where a lone bachelor was host, for Paula’s 
coming lightened the day for many a solitary ranch 
woman during days that followed. Three days’ 
search, after they had of course, gone first to Ten 
Mile, only to learn that no one there had heard of 
a missing dog, found the girl and her knight far into 
the hills. 

They had stopped one night at the Double Z ranch 
with Mazie Underhill, wife of the owner and 
still young enough herself to receive Paula and her 
other world atmosphere with open arms. Strangely 



SONNY 


131 


enough to herself, though, the girl had no appetite, 
and that in spite of the wonderful meal that Mazie 
was at much pains to prepare. 

“It’s the heat, I think,” she apologized, “and then 
I believe I’m more tired than I believed.” 

It took but one glance at the girl’s flushed face, 
though, for Mrs. Underhill, born out there so close 
to the desert and its dangers, to know why Paula was 
so hot. She hurried her to bed, and sent Bill post 
haste for the nearest doctor. When he arrived, it 
was to confirm Paula’s hostess in her diagnosis. 

“A touch of desert fever,” he said. “She must be 
kept in bed and very quiet.” 

It was not hard to follow the first of his instruc¬ 
tions, at any rate, for Paula Grayson, delirious with 
the fever of the desert to which she was unaccus¬ 
tomed, had no idea of trying to get up. It was 
Mazie’s idea that the girl’s people should be in¬ 
formed, but as not even Bill knew anything of who 
or where they were, they were compelled to wait for 
returning consciousness for her to tell them. 

Which Paula Grayson would not do. She was 
inclined to make light of the entire matter, save the 
trouble she had caused when, after ten days, the fever 
left her and she began to be herself. 

“I’m in for a scolding when I see Dad anyway,” 
she laughed, “and I’m not going to make matters 
worse by confessing I was silly enough to get sun- 
struck.” 

In spite of the urging of her host and hostess, the 
girl insisted on resuming her search when she had 
been up and about the ranch for another week. Even 
Bill, who had stuck faithfully to his self-appointed 


132 


SONNY 


guardianship through all of the three weeks, shook 
his head, but Paula was adamant. 

‘Til promise you, though,” she laughed, “if it will 
ease your minds any, to telegraph Dad all about my¬ 
self as soon as we reach Ten Mile, for I’ve a hunch 
that we must go back there. You needn’t worry, 
though, I assure you. He won’t.” 

Ten Mile was so dead looking as they shot into 
it almost a month after their first visit to that 
metropolis that Paula shook her head as her guide 
headed for the station. 

“No, I think we’ll go on a bit, and come back here 
later. Go along the railroad track again. Some¬ 
thing tells me-” 

And big Bill thought to himself that some extra 
gift of divination had been given to this girl to whom 
all other gifts seemed likewise given when, a half 
hour later, she gave a sharp little cry and put out her 
hand in a peremptory gesture to stop the car. In a 
bound she had leaped out and bent over what it was 
that had attracted her. When she straightened up, 
she was holding something bright to her cheek, and 
there were tears in her eyes. She held out the bright 
object. 

“Look!” she cried, breathlessly. “I was right! 
I was right! He has been here. Here is his dear 
little collar! Oh, Pet!” and there was a pitiful 
stumble in her words, as two tears rolled, unheeded, 
down her dust-stained cheeks. “Where are you? 
What have they done with you?” 

If they had thought Ten Mile deserted as they 
had gone through it an hour earlier that morning, 
there could be no complaint of the sort on their re¬ 
turn. Almost it seemed as if all the horses and men 



SONNY 


133 


in the county had suddenly dropped in from some¬ 
where to make mobs in the streets. Stern, business¬ 
like looking men, Paula observed, as she caught 
glimpses of their faces in passing, and saw none of 
the smiles that she had come to recognize as usual 
with the happy-go-lucky men of the desert country in 
the short time she had known it. Wicked looking 
weapons hung from their belts and glittered in their 
hands as they gathered in groups to whisper sternly 
one to the other. Half frightened, Paula clung to 
her guide as she whispered: 

“Oh, what—what does it mean?” 

It was no secret to Bill. Only too w T ell he 
knew the meaning of what he saw. Who might be 
the intended victim he did not know, for Ten Mile 
was a long way from his own hang-outs, but the 
symptoms were unmistakable. His mouth grew 
stern as he spoke. 

“Trouble, I’m afraid, ma’am! This is no place 
for you, I’m thinkin’J” 

He had started to turn his car when the girl 
stopped him with a peremptory pressure on his arm. 

“But I want my dog!” she demanded. “No 
matter w T hat’s the trouble with these men, they’ll not 
hurt me, I’m sure—nor you!” she added. “Are you 
afraid?” 

The chauffeur’s face flushed under its alkali dust 
as the wheel spun around. 

“Only for you-” he had begun when she 

stopped him, on her tight shut lips an expression that 
those who knew her father would have recognized 
and would have known her then as his daughter. 

“Go on!” she demanded. 

It was the crippled station master, excitement 



134 


SONNY 


spread broadly across his features, showing more 
plainly in the quiver of his voice as he spoke, who en¬ 
lightened them. 

“They’re a posse,” he declared. “Goin’ after 
D ave Deerin’, an’ good thing, too. Him and his beast 
of a dog killed the postmaster and mighty nigh did 
fer the sheriff, too. Got out o’ jail somehow, and 
has hit it off for the desert, and they’re goin’ after 
him. See here!” And his excited finger pointed to 
the white sheet that fluttered outside the door of the 
shack station. Looking, Paula Grayson, for the first 
time in her life, beheld a hand bill putting forth the 
misdeeds of one of her fellow men, offering a reward 
for his capture, dead or alive. But there was some¬ 
thing more in this, too. Something about a dog. 
Surely a dog couldn’t be as bad as that. A man, 
maybe, but not a dog. Her thoughts turned to her 
own dog. Not even a posse, uncommon as it was, 
could long turn her from her own intentions. 

“No, can’t say as I’ve seen any strange dog about 
here for a long time save that beast o’ Dave Deerin’s. 

He hain’t had it long- Look! There they go!” 

he broke off to shout, a dirty, crooked finger pointing 
in the direction of the street where the dozens of 
armed horsemen, soundless, lips tightened with de¬ 
termination, with only whispered commands in the 
tension, were starting for the desert that lay like a 
bright cloth in the distance. Only the tramp, tramp 
of horses’ feet broke the stillness which at last was 
further broken by the yell of the station master as 
he waved his battered cap aloft to bid his comrades 
good-luck on their bloody journey. 

For a moment Paula Grayson hid her eyes with her 
hands and shuddered. That such terrible things 



SONNY 


135 


could be in the world! Then there came back to her 
as though from a douse of cold water something the 
station master had been saying—something about a 
dog. She turned to query him, the inspiration fresh 
upon her. 

u This dog of Dave Deering’s?” she queried. 
“Could you—do you know what he looked like?” 

The man nodded. 

“Anybody’s seen him wouldn’t be like to forget 
him soon. Queer looking mutt—legs too big fer his 
body, sort of square-like his head—more devil than 
dog, ef ye ask me—hair all sort of bristly, standin* 
up like a porkypine’s when he was mad which he 
mostly was-” 

A sharp cry broke from the girl’s lips with her 
intuition. 

“Pet!” she exclaimed. “And they can say he had 
anything to do with such terrible things!” 

“Pet! Huh!” sneered the station master. “A 
bum he is. Come from nowhere—lit into the town 
like a devil, and-” 

“What’re ye doin’, ma’am?” It was Bill’s sharp 
remonstrance that broke in. 

Paula’s lips shut tightly. 

“Going after my dog!” she said calmly, as she took 
her seat in the car. “I’ll not have them saying such 
things about him! He didn’t—he couldn’t do them!” 

“But you can’t be goin’ out there in the desert now, 
ma’am,” expostulated her knight, to whom before her 
word had been law. “With that posse and Daves 
Deering—why it’s suicide-” 

The girl’s lips set tighter. 

“I’m going after my dog!” sh’e repeated firmly. 

“Then I’m going to refuse to take you, ma’am.” 1 





136 


SONNY 


Bill’s own jaws had a determined set. “I’ve been only 
too willin’ to do what ye liked, but I can’t see ye goin’ 
into that hell.” As though the matter were settled, 
he whirled and walked into the station. With a grin 
at the girl whose eyes blazed so dangerously furious, 
the crippled station master hobbled after. Left 
alone, Paula Grayson for a moment could only see 
red on the horizon over which the sun was already 
high. Then her lips curled contemptuously toward 
the station door. She slid over into the driver’s seat. 
The hours she had already spent in this car had 
familiarized her with its mechanism and she felt no 
compunction about starting it. The laughter of the 
station master from inside drowned the whirr of the 
starter. The soft dust of the road made small noise 
as the car purred toward the desert. It was the 
cloud of dust left in its wake that Bill saw as he 
strolled out of the station, serene in the thought that 
his charge had come to her senses. 

“Hell!” exploded Bill- 

Far out toward the desert, the girl steadied the 
wheel as it sank into sand ruts. She was murmuring 
to herself. 

“Hold on for just a little while, Pet!” was what 
she said. “I’m coming after you—I won’t let them 
hurt you! Horrid men! To say you could do all 
those things!” 

She did not see the figure in tattered blue uniform 
that lifted itself from the sage brush, the visored blue 
cap on backward over his sharp-featured red-skinned 
face with its bleary eyes a bit redder. The figure 
smiled half insanely after the girl in the car, just as it 
had a short time before after the quiet men on horse- 



SONNY 137 

back who had passed him, unheeding, too, as he lay 
in his hiding-place in the sage brush. 

“Gonna get wrong fella,” muttered the red-skin 
with a sage wag of his head. “Could tell um—no 
tell! Heap red eye. Good-by, John!” 


CHAPTER X 


T O the right and to the left of them stretched the 
desert. Ahead and behind, the gray sand dust 
covered the cacti with its gray shroud of death. 
The fine particles swirled up under the feet of the dog 
as he dragged one weary foot after the other. His 
tongue, his mouth, and the aching lungs that burned 
and smarted with each labored breath seemed covered 
inches thick with the hot, dry dust. 

Beside him, the pony shuffled along, with his nose 
held low because there wasn’t strength enough in the 
long neck to hold it above the blinding choking alkali. 
In the saddle, the man swayed and wabbled. 

Overhead the sun’s million swords of crimson and 
purple slashed down at them with red-hot blades. 

At every step the legs of the dog screamed their 
protest with each tortured nerve. Each foot of prog¬ 
ress seemed to wrench tendons and muscles with 
agony. The tongue that hung from his mouth was 
swelling. The eyes that were usually so bright and 
alert were burning balls of fire. All the world was 
fire. It was in the sky overhead. It blistered in the 
sands under his feet. 

The pony stopped. The dog dropped in his 
tracks. For a second he lay as he fell. Then the 
’digging paws in the sand swung the protesting body 
around so that the head was toward the man. The 
blood-streaked eyes of the animal held piteous appeal 
as they looked up at the master. 

“How far?” they seemed to cry. “How far?” 

138 




SONNY 


139 


'And the big man understood, just as he always 
understood the lights that came to the bright eyes of 
the Airedale dog that shared his life—and would 
gladly share his death when the time came. 

Dave Deering’s hand brushed roughly at his lips in 
a futile attempt to break the coating of dust that 
made them thick and sore. Inside his cheeks his 
tongue worked to loosen its stiffness. Words came 
slowly, haltingly, and with great effort: 

“On’y a little way, Sonny, ol’-timer. The Rum- 
devil’s jus’ a bit farther on.” He lifted the canteen 
from his saddle pommel, and shook it roughly, then 
let it fall back to the length of its holding thong. 
“Empty,” he croaked. “Pete and yuh had the last 
drops, b’cause both of yuh had to hoof it, while I 
could ride comfortable like.” He opened his lips 
to let through them a croaking parody of his usual 
hearty laugh. 

The dog crawled closer. What did it matter that 
his body felt a thousand twitching pains? He was 
with Dave, and Dave was talking to him. They 
were together. His stomach was burning for water. 
His lungs were flattened for air. But there was no air. 
Only the fire that would not leave them. But beside 
him the master w T as talking; talking to him. 

Forgotten were the miles, the countless miles from 
the mountain to Ten Mile. Forgotten was the 
strength-depleting fight with Dan, the brakeman, 
when the dog’s life had hung on the grip of his teeth. 
Forgotten was the attack on the sheriff while blood- 
hungry men were racing to kill Dave. Forgotten! 
was the escape over the desert, the blackness of the 
night, the gold and crimson of the morning, the fire 
of high noon on the waterless waste of sand. 


140 


SONNY 


Master and loving slave were together. 

“Guess I’ll give Pete a rest.” Dave spoke again in 
that harsh, dry tone the dog had never heard before. 
But, as always, the animal understood the sound of the 
voice and the message it gave. Dave was telling him 
that the dryness of throat and the weariness which 
hurt the dog was hurting him, too. 

It took a great deal of strength to hold up the 
square, funny-shaped Airedale head so that the eyes 
could watch Dave. But the reward of looking at the 
master was worth all the cost. Now he saw the big 
man staring down at the horse’s ears in a strange way. 
Again came the brushing at the lips in a vain effort to 
make the words come easier. 

“ ’Tain’t Pete,” he heard the big man mutter. 
“Course it ain’t. It’s jus’ one of them ol’ spavin- 
hearted bronks I grabbed outta the corral when we 
was cuttin’ out. Sure! Pete would never ’a’ stopped, 
not when all his four feet was on the ground.” An¬ 
other moment of silence, and the dog listened for 
other words that he knew were coming. “But I 
guess them horses an’ men that ain’t so strong as 
others get just as tired, even if they do get it quicker. 
Eh, Sonny? An’ I alius did pity the yeller man more’nf 
the regler kind. He needs it more. So we’ll walk.” 

Dave swung one foot over the pommel. He tried 
to swing off. But the hours in the saddle, the weari¬ 
ness, and the thirst that robbed the whole body of 
strength were too great handicaps. The big man 
lurched and fell heavily. Elis shoulder struck in the 
sand. He lay there. 

The pony stood still because he had not the am¬ 
bition to move. But the knotted, twisted muscles of 
the dog’s body seemed to straighten in an instant* 


SONNY 


141 


Dave was hurt! Sonny tried to leap to his feet. His 
legs were jelly under him. His jaws gripped together 
with the sudden pain, and his mouth felt a warm 
stickiness that he knew came from his tongue, which 
he had bitten. That sudden new pain acted like a 
stimulant by its very poignancy. 

Staggering drunkenly on his four shaky legs, the 
animal made his way to the side of the man who 
lay where he had fallen. The dog’s nose rubbed 
against the man’s ear. Sonny tried to yelp. But his 
tongue filled his whole mouth, and the effort that 
started in his throat could get no farther. He walked 
so that he could see Dave’s face. It was buried in 
the crooked arm. 

Frantically the dog tried to nose that arm out 
of the way. Perhaps, if he could see the big man’s 
face, he would know what was the matter. Dave’s 
face showed so very much that a dog could under¬ 
stand. But the weight was too much. If he could 
only use his teeth! If he could only grip and pull 
with the strength that used to come to his jaws: the 
strength that had ripped through the skin and 
crunched the bones of Dan’s wrist back there in Ten 
Mile. But he couldn’t! Couldn’t! 

There came a movement in the still air above him. 
It was as though the steady fire that had burned 
through the hours of their wandering had been 
fanned higher. A cloud of sand swirled up around 
Dave’s head. Its gray covered his hair where the 
hat had fallen off. Farther ahead a great cloud swept 
toward them. Above them, around them, sounded a 
gentle, swishing sound; a purring lullaby of the com¬ 
ing sand that was bringing death and burial. 

Above the dog came a curious noise. He had 


142 


SONNY 


never heard that before either. But he knew it and 
recognized it now. It was the animal cry of fear. 
The pony had lifted its head. There came a move¬ 
ment of the hoofs. The snorting squeal sounded once 
more, shrill, piercing. A fore hoof dug into the sand 
and grazed the arm of the man. 

Red rage seethed in the brain of the dog. The 
horse had almost hurt Dave. Pete would never have 
done that. The pony that he had followed for miles 
over the mountains loved the master even as he loved 
him. Now this strange horse was kicking at the man 
on the ground. 

The dog spun around on his four legs and tried to 
leap. But he toppled over like a foolish bug. An¬ 
other hoof flew out. It caught him like a sweeping 
flail and tossed him against the body of the man. 
Again the snort of terror. The horse leaped away, 
and the trailing rein that had been under Dave’s arm 
jerked loose. Straight toward the oncoming cloud 
the pony ran. Then wheeled. His hoofs tore at the 
loose sand. He was gone. Running away from the 
thing that was rushing toward the man and the dog. 

Sonny rolled over weakly. It did not seem possible 
that there was any breath in his body. Yet that push 
of the horse’s leg-—it had been no more because the 
dog had been right against the hoof—had driven out 
a great gasp of breath. 

It had taken, too, all the power of his legs. They 
scratched futilely at the sand as his nostrils quivered 
and tried to suck in air to fill the flattened lungs. 
Sonny lay on his side. The nerve or will power—call 
it what you will—had reached the breaking point. 

Dave stirred, and a groan came from his lips; a 
groan that sounded over the roar of menace that grew 


SONNY 


143 


louder each second. The desert instinct of the man 
who had lived in it and around it much of his life 
seemed to make him realize the danger even before he 
was fully conscious. His arms suddenly flung out be¬ 
fore him and shoved his head and shoulders from the 
sand. His eyes saw the black thing sweeping nearer. 
The small dust clouds that were stirring up all around 
them blew into his face. His whole body shook with 
the effort ot making it obey his brain. 

“Sonny!” That weak voice had in it a note of fear. 
Dave had looked around. The pony was gone. The 
dog was in back of him. “Yuh ain’t quittin’, dawg?” 
The question was flung out to the emptiness around 
him. 

The animal’s legs kicked out at the sand as they 
tried to double under him so that he could rise. Dave 
saw him. There was no look of joy on the face of 
the man. No word of commendation. He hitched 
himself around without rising. His strong hands 
snatched the dog to him and laid the animal beside 
him. A twist of his body jerked his coat from the 
broad shoulders. He fell forward on his face, with 
his head beside the dog’s body. 

“Quiet!” he commanded. Just that one word. 
The coat covered Dave’s head and the dog’s body. 
Smothering, suffocating. Then the roar came above 
them. Sonny felt the biting fingers of sand tear at the 
coat. The stinging sand grains sifted through and 
burned his skin. He could not breathe, and every¬ 
thing inside of him seemed bursting. 

Once he felt sure that he could stand it no longer. 
He tried to get up, to get out from under the heavy 
coat. But the man’s arm that held down the cloth 
jammed him back into place. The weight of the 


144 


SONNY 


world seemed on his back, pressing him down into the 
sand. The roar outside was continuous, and inside 
of his head came an answering roar. He knew that 
was because he couldn’t breathe. There was no air 
to ease the flames that seemed to crackle and leap be¬ 
hind his eyes. 

All the world was a night-black scream of sound. 
It was getting blacker—blacker—blacker. 

Sonny felt the covering over him move. The weight 
that was on his haunches shifted. Then the whole 
thing was whisked away. In place of the dark came 
the crimson shafts of the hot sun. Above him 
tapered a great pile of sand that had not been there 
before. At his side another uneven mound moved 
and twisted. Dave’s legs kicked out of their cover¬ 
ing into daylight. Dave’s face showed above him. 

“Close shave, dawg!” wheezed the big man’s voice. 
“Mighty close! Lucky it was a snooter instead of a 
snorter. But that fifteen minutes seemed like fifteen 
years. Eh, boy?” 

The wheezing words stopped. Dave rolled over 
on his back, and the dog could hear him pulling the 
air through his swollen lips in great sobs. Sonny 
turned on his side, and it took all the strength that 
was left in his body to make that effort. And for 
minutes they lay, man and dog, half conscious, know¬ 
ing only that there was air to be breathed, that it must 
be breathed. 

Life, with all its pain and its countless aches, came 
back to the dog’s body. The numbness of suffocation 
passed. He forced the weak legs to hold his body 
above the hot sands. The purple-gray cloud was far 
behind them. The sands ahead had been changed 
into new heaps and new levels. The gray tip of a 


SONNY 


145 


sage bush showed beside them where it had stood out 
gaunt and bare. At their left was a heap of gristly 
white things that had not shown before. 

But they held no interest for the dog. The thing 
that had brought him to his feet now made him lift 
his head. Yes! In the sluggish heat waves that 
swayed and revolved around them was a smell. It 
was a scent that the dog had been trying to get for 
hours and which he had not found. He staggered on 
a few feet. A deep sniff made his nostrils tremble. 
Yes! It was the same wonderful smell that had come 
to his nose that first night in the mountains, when he 
and Dave had stopped beside the cabin and its spring. 
Fainter now, only a ghost of what it should be, that 
trace of odor in the air made the dog’s whole body 
quiver. 

IV at er!. 

Farther on was water. The instinct of his 
ancestors was reaching down through the thousand 
years to give him the scent of a thing that fossilized 
scientists say has no scent. Perhaps it had come as 
an aftermath of the storm. Perhaps it had been there 
before, but the dog had not caught it. Perhaps—but 
why attempt to explain? Neither science nor phil¬ 
osophy can explain a dog any more than they can the 
mysteries of the human heart and love. Sonny knew— 
knew —that ahead of them was water. 

Fie turned around slowly so that his body, that 
had grown curiously top-heavy, would not over¬ 
balance. Dave was sitting up. He had torn off his 
shirt, and his fingers were clumsily adjusting a band¬ 
age across his chest. The dog came toward him and 
rested his head on the big man’s knee. 

“Went down like an old woman that’s seen a 


146 


SONNY 


mouse, didn’t I?” He tried to twist his swollen lips 
in a grin. The words sounded raspingly, and Sonny 
knew that the man’s throat felt as badly as his did. 
But ahead there was water that would make them 
both all right again. Only a little way. He nosed 
at the man’s knee. He tried to push it straight. 
But his saggy hind legs only dug into the sand. 

“Wanta go on, eh?” The man was whispering 
hoarsely. But the dog understood. There was the 
look in the man’s eyes, the curve of the lips, and the 
tone of the voice that made the animal understand. 
“Guess there ain’t much use, boy. That scratch I got 
before them boys at Ten Mile induced me to come 
into their darn jail has opened a bit. That’s what 
made me go under when I tried to climb off’n that 
darn pony what beat it. Ain’t much use, dawg. We 
ducked the rope, but we can’t duck the ol’ desert. 
Nussir! Nobody never beat the sand and the sun yet. 
An’ we ain’t got a horse nor a canteen. Nothin!!” 

Sonny continued his nosing. He turned and ran a 
few steps staggeringly, and looked back. The man 
still sat there. His lips mumbled words, and his 
fingers tried to tighten the rough bandage. The dog 
came back. He wanted to yelp out that there was 
water. He knew that, if he could yelp, the man 
would understand. 

But his tongue was in his way. It was always in 
his way. He had run many miles, and the man had 
ridden. He went through his dumb pantomime 
once more. Again he ran the few feet and looked 
back. 

“Darn little cuss!” muttered the man, with another 
croaking laugh. “He won’t give up. Nussir! If a 
man was on’y game as a dawg, he’d have the whole 


SONNY 


147 


world knucklin’ under to him. Yussir! I guess maybe 
us men is lucky that dawgs ain’t humans. ’Tain’t no 
use, Sonny, ol’-timer. Guess I lost out on that Rum- 
devil thing. Oughta struck it afore this. But what’s 
the use? It’s sixty miles from there to the nex’—an’ 
with no canteen, nor pony—aw, go ahead your own- 
self. I ain’t no account, an’ I’m all in—honest.” 

The dog understood vaguely that Dave did not 
care about the water. But he understood, too, that 
Dave was very tired. He must be helped. 

He rubbed against Dave’s back. He braced his 
feet into the sand and pushed with the whole weight 
of his body against the heavy body of the man. The 
sand slid from under him, and he went down. But 
he was up again. Pushing and shoving ridiculously 
with his puny strength, he tried to move the bulky 
Dave. 

And the man did move! 

He turned around slowly, and it was several 
seconds before his deadened brain understood the 
significance of the dog’s action. When he saw what 
Sonny was trying to do he scrambled to his knees and 
reached around to touch the dog lightly on the head 
before he staggered to his feet. 

“Yeller fer mine, boy,” mumbled the big man. 
“Me givin’ up an’ yuh urgin’ me on. Livin’ right 
plump up to what a dawg oughta do, an’ me doin’ 
the same for what a man usually does. All right, 
boy. I’ll make another try. I’m ’shamed! Go on, 
Sonny, lead the way!” 

Slowly they started ahead. The dog braced his 
body for each step to keep the feet under him. The 
big man lurched from side to side as he walked. One 
arm swung limply at his side, and the other hand 


148 


SONNY 


touched it tenderly from time to time. A hundred 
yards ahead the man fell. He struck his shoulder 
heavily, and a curse wrenched from his lips. But he 
lay still a long time. Much longer than the dog be¬ 
fore the animal’s nose prodded again at the big body. 

There was water ahead though and Dave must get 
up. At last he did and they stumbled on. 

Every step seemed that it must be the last. But 
the smell of water was stronger; stronger than the 
dog’s body that wanted rest; stronger than the thick 
sand that clung to their feet. 

Several times the man fell, and the dog fell beside 
him. Sonny was always up first. He prodded and 
pushed Dave up. Then they went on again. The 
last time the master fell he refused to get up. He 
scrambled weakly to his knees and wagged his head 
slowly in protest to the dog that sought to force him 
on. 

Then Dave’s eyes saw the Rumdevil ahead. A 
choking cry that was more like that of an animal than 
a human left his thick lips. He staggered to his feet, 
but his legs would not support his leaden body. He 
shuffled ahead on all fours with frantic eagerness. 
At the top of a sand hill he lost his balance and 
rolled to the bottom. But the Rumdevil was only a 
little way from him. And he made it. 

On the edge of the hole, he lay and sucked in the 
water. It was hot; the alkali dust had tinged it with 
bitterness. But it was water! When he had taken 
enough he rolled over on his back and lay there with 
the sun beating down on his closed lids. 

“Sonny!” he mumbled. There was no answering 
whine, no rubbing of the dog’s body against his body. 
“Sonny!” The call came stronger, and it was minutes 


SONNY 


149 


before his brain could figure so simple a thing as the 
reason for the dog not answering. 

The dog wasn’t there! He had been left behind. 
When the man had reached the water; when Sonny 
had seen that the master was safe, he had dropped in 
his tracks. Nothing else mattered ! 

The man got up slowly and painfully. It was not 
until he was on his feet that the full significance of 
the missing dog struck him. 

Then all weakness seemed to drop from him like 
a cloak. He called out hoarsely, and ran back with 
his head bent to see the long furrows in the sand that 
his dragging knees had made. Around the sand hill 
he found the dog with closed eyes. With a sob of 
fear Dave dropped beside his friend. His hand was 
gentle and tender as a woman’s as it felt the sand- 
incrusted hairs of the dog’s body. 

There was life! 

Carefully he lifted the dog and staggered back to 
the hole. He doused the animal’s muzzle into the 
water. He forgot the one great lesson that the desert 
taught: Do not waste a drop of the precious stuff 
that means life! He threw it over the head of the 
dog; he bathed his sides and tongue and eyes. 

The gasping pants of breath made the dog’s sides 
quiver. 

“Thank God!” sobbed the man. “Thank God!” 

He lay down again. The sleep of exhaustion came, 
and when he waked the sun was behind the western 
hills. The long shadows were taking the place of 
the flaming swords. And Sonny’s muzzle was nosing 
at his ear and hair. 

Through the long night they slept. The desert 
chill fanned their burning bodies. Long drafts from 


150 


SONNY 


the Rumdevil made their mouths right again. The 
sleep of exhaustion lapsed into the normal sleep of 
peace and calm. 

When the sun shot his first shafts of golden 
crimson athwart the world Dave was stirring. He 
sat up and looked at the water hole. Then he gave 
the dog his morning caress. After which he drew his 
belt a hole tighter and grinned down at his pal. 

“Well, Sonny, we got water all right. There’ll be 
plenty here as long as we want it. That’s why they 
call this ol’ hole the Rumdevil. The Rum part’s be¬ 
cause it’s mighty good, an’ the devil because it’s always 
workin’. But water’s a mighty slim diet. There ain’t 
a scrap to eat. There ain’t even a spoon to carry 
water to th’ nex’ hole. Course we might hold out 
here till somebody comes along. Everybody that 
crosses the desert’s gotta stop here. But then we’ll 
be jus’ where we was. We’re outlaws, boy, outlaws. 
A lyin’, thievin’, murderin’, dog-beatin’ jasper that 
may have some other failin’s we don’t know about 
was slick enough to put that killin’ of ol’ Tuttle an’ 
the post-office robbery off on us. Now we’re worth 
just five hundred dollars to the coyote that catches 
us.” 

The dog listened seriously, because he knew Dave 
was discussing a very serious subject. He knew that 
something was wrong. There was no fire, and the air 
did not hold that wonderful smell of sizzling things 
in a pan that Sonny had come to associate with the 
mornings. 

He barked once, short and quick, and frisked 
around the man expectantly. He was hungry, and it 
was time they ate. Before it had only been water 
that they wanted. Now the stomach was craving 


SONNY 


151 


food. Dave drew him up close in a gesture of rough 
fondness, and held the shaggy ears between his big 
hands as he shook the square head. 

“Darn sorry, boy,” he said kindly. “Guess yuh 
go hungry to-day. An’ Lord knows what’ll come tuh- 
morra. No food. No canteen. No pony. No 
chancet of bein’ helped ’ceptin’ back into that swell 
cell place we got outta. We’re up against it, boy.” 

He sat for a long time in silence, and the dog was 
silent, too, as he stared up into his master’s face. The 
animal had begun to understand. There was none 
of the sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting things that had 
always sizzled in the pan before. 

Vaguely he understood that it was because the pony 
had run off and left them. Also because the men 
back there in Ten Mile, who had tried to shoot him 
and to hurt Dave, were to blame. His teeth bared, 
and the growl that had changed from the weak 
puppy whine of the day Dave had found him to the 
full, deep growl of strength, issued from his drawn- 
back lips. 

Dave grinned down soberly at him. “Them’s my 
sentiments, dawg. But it don’t do no good. The 
world’s give us a bad name, dawg, an’ we’re out here 
in the desert, with nothin’ but death or a new cell 
tuh be dealt outta the cards that’s left in the pack.” 

All signs of the grin left the face of the big man. 
He stood up slowly, as though he was very tired. 
His hands clenched above his head, and a hard oath' 
sounded. He turned to face the direction from 
which they had come. And he cursed the silence, the 
loneliness, the world. 

“Damn yuh!” he raged tensely. “Yuh won’t even 
let me give myself up so’s I could save the pup that’s 


152 


SONNY 


’done so much fer me. Yuh’d shoot him like he was 
mad, wouldn’t yuh? Just because yuh say he’s bad, 
like yuh said I was! Yuh lied about him! Don’t 
matter ’bout me. I’m a man. But he’s a little purp 
dawg that never did nothin’ but good tuh nobody. 
He’s my dawg, and, damn yuh, yuh won’t get him!” 
He bent over to swing the dog up against his broad 
chest, and he held him tight, hurting the small body 
with the pressure of love. “Will they, Sonny?” he 
cried fiercely. “Will they? Nussir!” 

He set the animal down gently. Then the dog 
wheeled suddenly, and the hair on his back bristled. 
The rumbling growl sounded through his teeth. He 
ran to the left a few feet, and stopped to look back at 
the man. 

“What is it, boy?” Dave asked anxiously. 
“What’s out there?” 

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared over 
the desert. His keen sight that had been trained to 
cover distance and detail tried to find some menace 
in each stunted cactus, and in the great hillocks of 
sand that the wind had tossed up. But only the 
buzzards kept their kitelike flight in the air. 

The dog growled again. He ran forward another 
few steps and stopped. 

“What is it, Sonny?” repeated Dave soberly. Then 
his voice clanged to sudden command: “Down, boy / 
Down!” 

As always, the dog obeyed that order instantly. 
Behind him he heard the heavy plump of Dave’s body 
on the sand. He knew that Dave had seen the men 
he had smelled from afar off. Then Dave started 
talking very slowly and deliberately: 

“Thanks, Sonny, ol’-timer. If I hadn’t paid atten- 


SONNY 


153 


tion to that nose of yours, Fd stood up jus’ as plain 
as a tree. Just saw the tip of Bill Heeley’s white 
sombrero over the hill back there. No other white 
’brero in these parts ceptin’ the sheriff’s. Hot on our 
trail, boy. An’ makin’ straight for here.” 

Sonny turned on his belly, and saw the big man 
wiggle over to a sage bush and lift his head, talking 
all the while: 

“Th’ whole gang with him, darn ’em! Thought 
maybe they’d s’pose we cut back for the mountains, 
but Bill is some slick trailer. They’re swingin’ round 
that long gully over there. Come on, boy!” 

D ave was up. The dog was at his heels. Bent 
almost double, the man twisted in and out of the un¬ 
even hillocks, dodging down a deep arroyo into a 
'devil’s slash between rocks that had been swept bare 
by the hand of the wind. Sometimes he dropped full 
on his face with a word that brought the dog down 
beside him. Then up again, plunging through the 
sand till they were both blowing and panting. 

The big man did not get up when he had dropped 
for the dozenth time. He sat with his back against a 
mound of sand in an arroyo bottom, and laughed a 
dry, harsh laugh. 

“Now what the devil did I do that for?” he asked 
the dog. “Seems to me this runnin’-away thing has 
got into my blood. Where’m I goin’ to run, an’ how? 
They gotta stop at Rumdevil. Yuh can’t hide tracks 
like ours in the sand. There’s a dozen of ’em with 
hawsses. An’ we ain’t got nothin’ but our legs, an’ 
the sixty miles to the next water. Can’t be done, 
dawg. No man ain’t never crossed sixty mile of hell 
without water.” Then his voice rang out fiercely 
once more. “But they won’t get yuh, dawg! They 


154 


SONNY 


won’t get a chancet to drive their lead at yuh. 
Nussir! Yuh gotta dodge that lead if we get close, 
Sonny. Know what it’s like? Just like the buzz of a 
bee. Zoom! Zo-o-o-m! A zip with the sting of 
death on it. Yuh gotta keep low and swing out an’ 
in, out an’ in!” 

He shook his hands in a strange, zigzag fashion 
that held all of the dog’s attention. Sonny understood 
that Dave was talking of the things that hung at 
men’s hips; the teeth that bit so strongly and so 
deeply. He remembered that buzzing sound. He 
had heard it in Ten Mile the night he had found 
Dave. So that was the noise that men’s teeth made 
before they bit? 

“Yussir, boy! Jus’ like that!” The two big 
hands shook and moved from side to side. “Never 
straight because them fellers’ll pink yuh. But a 
streakin’ dawg that’s runnin’ crazy is some shot for 
the best man that ever packed a gun.” 

Snaking his body along, Dave crept up where he 
could lift his head beside a group of cactus stumps 
that grew on the edge of the arroyo. Sonny lay quietly 
at his feet. The dog understood that he was not 
to show himself; just as he now understood the com¬ 
ing men were from Ten Mile. They were the men 
who had tried to hurt Dave; the men who had taken 
the teeth away from the big man and had locked him 
up. 

“Lucky a man kin see a lot of miles over the 
desert,” the man muttered, as he slipped back into 
the arroyo. “It’ll be half an hour before they hit 
Rumdevil and our trail. Then they’ll be cornin’ this 
way, boy. But I guess we’re in as good a place as 
any. Some of ’em, a lot of ’em, ’ll go with us unless 


SONNY 


155 


they promise yuh a square 'deal.” His lips set grimly, 
and he reached out an arm to throw it around the 
neck of the dog. “But they ain’t very strong on the 
square-deal thing Sonny. I guess we’ll go out to¬ 
gether. There ain’t nothin’ left for me. That slick 
Easterner got my mine with all the money I had in it. 
I got to start all over again. An’ now the men I used 
to call my friends won’t let me start. I guess we’ll 
both be better off because I don’t b’lieve God won’t 
let a good dawg go where a man goes. No, dawg, 
I ain’t afraid of God doin’ a thing like that.” 

The dog pressed close against the man, and his 
tongue licked the big hand. He watched Dave take 
his gun from his belt and twirl the cylinder. He saw 
the big man feel of the heavy belt around his waist 
and shake his head. Then he patted the dog once 
more. 

“Not many brass fillin’s for them teeth of mine,” 
he said soberly. “But I hope our friend, Dan, gets 
one, eh, boy?” 

The growl at the sound of that hated name was 
louder than any the dog had uttered. 

“Sh!” admonished the man gently, and then he 
spoke very seriously, as the dog looked up at him: 
“Don’t yuh make none of them mad noises till I start. 
If yuh do, they’ll know where I am. If yuh bark or 
growl, they’ll get wise before I get in the first lick. 
That’s bad. I tol’ yuh before never to show your 
teeth till they are ready to bite. An’ I sure don’t want 
them jaspers to know where I am till I’m ready they 
should know. Understand?” 

The dog blinked up at him wisely. He did under¬ 
stand. He was not to show the coming men where 
Dave was. He knew that Dave had told him to be 


156 


SONNY 


quiet several times for that same reason. If a dog 
made a noise, then the Ten Mile men would know 
where Dave was hiding. They would come and get 
him and take him away again, just as the man they 
called Charlie had up in the mountains. 

“I guess yuh do understand, dawg.” Again came 
the pat that made the dog thrill all over. “I reckin 
I’m safe with yuh here because yuh’re the on’y safe 
kind of a friend a man can have.” 

The gun fell to the ground unheeded as the clumsy 
fingers combed the short, wiry hair on the dog’s back. 

“I kinda wish yuh wasn’t here, Sonny,” he said, and 
his harsh voice was very soft. “I wish yuh was 
somewhere else where yuh’d be; safe and get the 
good things outta life that a white man-dawg oughta 
get. ’Tain’t right, dawg!” 

The gentleness went from his voice with that last 
exclamation, and the old fierceness was in the curse 
that followed. 

“Damn ’em!” gritted Dave. “What they 
botherin’ us for? Why don’t they stay away? Why 
don’t they leave us alone to be happy?” 

He crawled to the top of the arroyo again, and 
gazed out over the desert from among the sheltering 
group of cacti. Sand that slipped and slid under him 
made him instinctively push out his arm to steady 
himself. The dog, watching, saw the wince of pain 
as the movement opened up the wound that had been 
nagging and harrowing the whole morning. Nor did 
he understand the whiteness of the master’s face as 
he half rolled, half tumbled back into the arroyo, and 
lay still, a crumpled heap, his head on one arm, 
his other hand held in an unconscious, affectionate 
gesture on the head of the crouching animal. Sonny 


SONNY 


157 


whined and reached up to lick the big hand. Strange 
that there was no response. Strange, too, that Dave 
should be sleeping now when he must know, as the 
dog knew, of those men out there coming for him, 
nearer—nearer. A pleading whimper sounded in his 
throat. Then he settled down to watch. If Dave 
was sleeping, it must be all right. But he, Sonny, must 
watch. He knew it—knew it! His head pillowed in 
his arm in the deep sand, Dave Deering, oblivious to 
everything in the unconsciousness that had overtaken 
him for the second time, breathed deeply and regu¬ 
larly as a baby. Beside him a dog with no thought of 
sleep in mind or heart, watched. Above them a 
buzzard swooped low in the hot sky. Across the 
death-white desert, death itself, was riding on toward 
them. 


CHAPTER XI 


S ONNY did not once close his eyes as he watched. 
With his head on his outstretched fore paws, 
he blinked at the unconscious man whom he 
thought sleeping. Strangely, and unaccountably in 
his own worried little mind, though, he realized that 
there was no happiness in his heart such as had been 
there when at other times he had watched Dave sleep¬ 
ing. There was only sadness, and the look on the 
master’s face showed that he, too, must be sad. The 
dog blinked up at the cacti that showed against the 
sky on the arroyo top. Up there were the men who 
were coming to hurt them—to hurt Dave. The big 
man didn’t want them to come. He had said so over 
and over. And now he was sleeping as they came 
nearer, nearer, and could not even try to keep them 
away with the shiny thing that lay in the sand near 
one limp, opened hand. 

They mustn’t come! They mustn’t hurt Dave, 
who was sleeping. The dog growled at the bare rock 
that protected them from the heaped-up sand all 
around. He tried to scratch his way up. Then he 
remembered that the man had told him he wasn’t to 
show where he was. 

Teeth should never be shown until they were ready 
to be used! 

That was the lesson Dave Deering had impressed 
on the mind of the dog from the day they had first 
met. The dog had heard it a hundred times. Dave 

158 


SONNY 


159 


had meant it as a man’s philosophy. But the dog 
did not know that. He accepted it literally. 

He stood over Dave for a minute, and his hot 
breath on the man’s cheek caused the hand of the man 
to whom consciousness was slowly returning to raise 
in a subconscious effort to brush off an invisible fly. 
But there was no other movement. Sonny looked 
down the arroyo. There were the tracks they had 
made when they entered. Those were the tracks that 
would lead back to where the men were coming— 
coming to hurt Dave. 

They mustn’t come! 

Almost before the dog’s brain was conscious of the 
fact, his legs had started him along the tracks over 
which they had recently stumbled. It was no thought 
in the dog’s head—for the crabbed old scientists who 
know science and not dogs say they do not think— 
that sent him back. It was just memory. And that 
is something which God gives to animals as he gives 
them intelligence. 

Sonny remembered the scene back there in the 
room at Ten Mile. Dan had been afraid of him! 
iThe other men who had waited to shoot him had also 
been afraid. The sheriff had been afraid! And it 
had been so easy to put the sheriff out of the way so 
that he could get to the master. Was it, after all, 
no thought that sent the dog down the arroyo? 
Wrong. It was the most elemental of all thoughts 
that the human brain knows. It was conceit. 

Sonny remembered how he and Dave had left the 
Rumdevil. He kept to the tracks, skirting every hid¬ 
ing hummock and hillock that the keen-eyed man had 
picked to conceal their flight. Over the desert came 
the buzz of far-off men’s voices. No human ear 


160 


SONNY 


could have heard them, but the dog knew where they 
were. So he ran in and out of the rough furrows 
that the wind had plowed up. 

He did not go to the Rumdevil. The men were not 
there. They were beyond it. In and out, hiding his 
body at every vantage point with a peculiar instinct 
that he did not know—another heritage that had 
come down through the centuries to him. He was 
hiding from the enemy. He was remembering the 
master’s lesson that teeth were not to be shown until 
the time came to use them. 

The buzz became words. He was very near. 
He could hear the creaking of the saddles and the 
hot breaths of the horses as they shuffled along 
through the clinging sand. The dog went slowly. 

“Damn’ foolishness!” a heavy voice grunted, and 
the dog’s teeth bared. It was the voice of the man 
who had taken Dave away from the mountain and 
had left the dog alone. “He couldn’t ha’ got this far. 
Didn’t we see Jake’s horse thirty miles back? No 
man on earth could find the Rumdevil on foot an’ 
go through the storm last night.” 

“Shut up!” That was the sheriff. “Likely as not 
the horse ran a dozen miles er so before the sand got 
him. An’ Deering’d go through anything. But”— 
a string of curses separated that word and the next— 
“I been hopin’ to find the body of that darn dawg 
that knocked me out and nigh tore the clothes off’n 
me. Ripped my shirt an’ galluses, an’ it’s lucky hej 
didn’t kill me. He’s a devil!” 

A growling chorus of assent went up from the men'. 
“Dan’s wrist won’t never be right again,” grunted a 
man. “I want one shot at that mutt. Just one!” 

“Maybe we might take him back to that fool 


SONNY 


161 


woman that hit town in the autermobile when we was 
leavin’,” growled a rider. “She was hollerin’ some¬ 
thin’ to Cripple Jake down to the station ’bout a 
dawg an’ wavin’ a collar on a chain.” He laughed 
titteringly, a laugh that grated on those others to 
whom the expedition was no holiday jaunt. “Reckirt 
if she got that mutt,” he chuckled, “she’d have her 
hands too full to be lookin’ fer another right soon. 
Wonder whut kind of a dawg she was ’lowin’ she 
might find in Ten Mile.” 

“Plenty!” growled Sim Yeager, but his jaws 
snapped with a click on the one word that was mean¬ 
ingful. 

“Oh, I jest suppose she’s one uh them fool society 
women that’s maybe lookin’ for a wilci prairie dawg 
to put on a gol’ chain,” sneered Charlie. “I read 
they had monkeys an’ bears an’ things at their dinner 
tables. Last time a woman came in a autermobile 
she w T as lookin’ fer f os tils!” 

“Huh!” grunted the sheriff. “Never mind talkin’. 
Watch!” 

The dog slunk around a gray sage bush. They 
were coming toward him. He’d wait. He could 
make the leap at the mounted sheriff. He was the 
man who seemed to be leading. 

Without warning came the report of a gun, to 
crash in the silence that had come after the sheriff’s 
words. A whining zip. A small spurt of sand tore 
up beside the dog. 

“There he is!” 

Another roar. Another of the sand spurts that 
sent the biting grains of sand against the dog’s 
muzzle. 

“Dave’s somewhere around!” 


162 


SONNY 


The sheriff’s voice boomed out in triumph. The 
shouted name of the master made the dog remember 
in a flash that last lesson he had learned. He saw 
again the wagging hand of the master as Dave talked 
in that slow voice with its serious tone. 

He mustn’t stay still when men’s teeth were trying 
to bite him. And he had heard the buzz of the bee. 
He had wondered just a little what Dave had meant 
by" bee.” But he had wagged understanding because 
Dave had wanted him to. Now he knew what bees 
were. He recognized the “Zoom! Zoom!” Dave 
had told him about. He turned and scrambled down 
the bank that was topped with the gaunt, dry sage. 
There were many roars now, just as there had been 
that night at Ten Mile. In the air were countless 
bees making the noise that meant sting. He must 
get away from them because Dave had said they 
would hurt a dog. Between sand hills, around cacti. 
Still that buzzing. It filled the whole world. It was 
maddening—it frightened him. But Dave had said 
he mustn’t run straight. Crazily, zigzagging in and 
out, never showing more than a streak of gray in the 
uneven mounds of sand, he ran. 

For the first time in weeks he forgot Dave. He: 
forgot everything but that awful buzzing zip irt 
the air. In Ten Mile it had not frightened him be¬ 
cause he had dodged away from the line of fire, and 
the bullets had come nowhere near him. But now 
they were dangerously close. So the dog ran on 
with the speed of terror and the unreasoning instinct 
of the animal to protect himself. 

Sonny did not know that the men had wheeled in 
their tracks, and were trying their best to make the 
weary ponies follow his crazy course. He did not 


SONNY 


163 


know that the sheriff had shouted out an order for 
two of the men to go on to the Rumdevil in case 
Dave Deering circled back. He did not know that 
the only thought in the minds of the pursuing men 
was the dog; the dog they had given a bad name and 
which they supposed was on his way to his master. 

In, out, south and north. One thing was in the 
dog’s mind. He must get away! Away! But he 
couldn’t. The whole air was a buzz of menace. 
Several times the spurts of sand ripped up beside him 
as a lucky shot almost anticipated a twist or a 
shadow that was cast around a furrow. The dog’s 
lungs felt as they had that terrible day before when 
he had urged Dave on. It seemed that he would 
never stop running. But the buzz was dying. The 
crash of the pistols in the desert silence was not so 
loud. Ahead was a flat stretch that was as clean 
and smooth as a billiard table. 

Out upon it the dog ran, a target. The whining 
buzz sounded again. But now it was not memory 
of the lesson that made the dog zigzag and twist. It 
was sheer terror and fatigue and dizziness. Behind 
him the men came on. And he knew he must go on, 
too. Some miracle—or perhaps God’s sheltering 
mantle of life does give its charm to dogs as well as 
children—kept the leaden bees around him and over 
him. Then there was more of the broken ground— 
a long arroyo, where the hungry stones had sucked 
up the water that cut them a thousand years before; 
a stretch of jagged rocks that had caught heaps of 
sand like a bush on a river bank havens the drift of 
the water. The buzzing became fainter—ceased. 
Still the dog went on until he lay down on the sand 



164 


SONNY 


and shook his whole body with the effort of getting 
air through the dust-clogged nostrils. 

It was three hours before the terror quivering 
stopped. Then he remembered Dave. He had left 
Dave! He had run away w T hen the master needed 
him. He had thought to scare the men who had 
come to hurt Dave, and they had frightened him, be¬ 
fuddled him so that he could not think of anything but 
the terror that drove him onward. 

Now he must get back. The men w T ho had pursued 
with their guns went entirely out of his mind. He 
started back the way he had come. He sniffed at the 
air eagerly and hungrily, but there was no sign in the 
'desert of the man he loved. There was nothing but 
the sand and the sun, which beat down so mercilessly. 

His tracks were there. He followed them. Then 
came the twistings and turnings. He found himself 
going backward instead of forward. Over the same 
ground. The grotesque shapes of the piles of sand 
confused him. Back again. He found the level space 
at last. He knew it was familiar, and he had passed 
over it before. But a handful of wind had swept 
across it. There were no tracks. The scent would 
not hold in the shifting sand. 

He went ahead blindly, and he ran north instead 
of west. A great fear was growing inside of him; a 
fear totally different from the terror of a few hours 
before. But it was a million times sharper and more 
poignant. 

He had lost Dave! 

There was nothing but sand, and the cacti and the 
great birds that flew and volplaned overhead. For 
miles he kept the straight course. Then he veered. 
How or why he did not know. It came without 


SONNY 


165 


thought or reason or instinct. Dave must be some¬ 
where ahead of him. He had to be! 

The dog would find him again, just as he had 
found him before. But now the terror of those 
whining, buzzing bees seemed to have destroyed the 
thing that had led him down the mountain and into 
Ten Mile. There had been no shifting sand there. 
The trail had held straight and clear. Here every¬ 
thing was different and strange. 

From his mouth came a continuous whimpering. 
Dave was lost. Gone! Then to his nostrils came a 
scent that made him stop. A strange, half pleasant 
odor that he could not place. There w r as nothing like 
it in the mountains. He knew all the scents there. 
And in the desert was nothing but sand and sun. Yet 
he knew that smell. It seemed a part of some vague, 
intangible other life he had known before. 

He started toward it, loping slowly and trying 
vainly to understand what was ahead. Suddenly 
memory shifted. The soft-cushioned thing in which 
he and the pretty lady of the great town had ridden 
before he met Dave had the same smell. He even 
knew its name because he had heard it so many times. 
It was automobile! 

The lope became a trot. The girl he remembered 
had always been kind in her foolish way. Not kind 
like Dave. True. Hers hadn’t been the master’s 
kindness nor goodness. But he remembered that it 
had seemed good in the days before he was able to 
understand things. Perhaps she would help him find 
Dave! She had done lots of little things before. 
Maybe she would do a big thing if he made her 
understand. 

Of course she wouldn’t know as did Dave, because 


166 


SONNY 


Dave knew everything. But he might make her 
understand that the god had gone out of the world 
and had left nothing in it for a dog. Sonny ran with 
all the power of his tired legs. Ahead, sunken to the 
hubs of the front wheels on a sand slope, was an auto¬ 
mobile. 

Stopping, the dog stared at it. He had made a 
mistake. The limousine which had had that smell 
did not look like this low-swung desert car. He 
walked ahead slowly. 

“Pet!” The joyous cry of a woman made him 
stop. She jumped from the sand and ran toward 
him. “Pet!” she sobbed. 

The dog stood still. That was a word he knew. 
It was the lady of the rose room and the cushions. 
She looked different, but there was no mistake. Her 
face was not white as he had always known it. It 
was gray like Dave’s face, except that there were 
funny streaks down it; streaks of white from the eyes 
to the chin. 

He approached her gravely. She wouldn’t harm 
him. She might annoy him a bit, but that was be¬ 
cause she didn’t know any better. And he needed 
help. He halted as she ran toward him. He tried to 
draw back as she dropped to her knees and flung her 
arms about him. 

“Oh, Pet!” she choked, and her voice sounded 
squeaky instead of rich and deep like Dave’s voice. 
“Oh, little baby dog, I’ve found you! I’ve found 
you! Those awful men didn’t get you, did they? 
Oh, I told you I’d come!” Sonny tried to wriggle him¬ 
self loose from the distasteful feminine embrace as his 
mind fumbled for the reason for the hysterical out¬ 
burst and the eager hand-strokings that were as soft 


SONNY 


167 


as Dave’s but held none of his master’s soothing. 
Her arms went tighter, as she buried her head in the 
sand-covered wire hair of his body. There was re¬ 
proach at his struggles. “Oh, Pettie,” she begged, 
“my little dog! Don’t you love me any more at all! 
If you only knew how hard I’ve tried to find you— 
for weeks—without even letting Dad know where I 
was so they couldn’t find me before I found you!’’ 
She gave the dog’s tired body another hug. “And 

they told me a terrible outlaw had you, and you-’’ 

The dog wondered the cause for the tears as the girl’s 
words, forced out by overwrought nerves and her 
hours of searching out on that desert where she knew 
others were searching for a different reason, tumbled 
over each other. “I said I wouldn’t let them get you, 
Pet! I said I wouldn’t! Even when I had to come 
for you all this way alone!’’ 

It was only a jumble of words to the dog; a jumble 
of sounds that grated on his nerves. There were 
many familiar phrases. The tight hug, too, he had 
known before. And in his brain was some vague 
recollection that he had once liked it. But he under¬ 
stood that was because he had been a foolish young 
puppy and knew no better. 

“But no horrid outlaw has my dog, has he?’’ 
She pressed him tighter. “Pet is back again.’’ 

The dog tried to draw away. It was very annoy¬ 
ing, all this talk that said nothing. It all seemed to 
come in such a flat tone that had none of the hundred 
shades of meaning that Dave’s had. The tight 
pressure of the arms, too, was different. It lacked 
the strength and the wonderful hurt of the big man’s. 

The arms loosened. Sonny did not know it was 
because he had used all the power of his hardened 




168 


SONNY 


muscles to break them. He backed away and re¬ 
garded her with his sober brown eyes. 

“Why, how strong he is!” cried the girl, looking 
at him from her seat on the sand. “He’ll have to 
have his little collar and chain. Come here, 
Pettums!” 

She rose, and went over to the automobile and took 
from the front seat the chain and the collar with its 
gold plate. Sonny backed away again. He knew that 
thing. It was the thing that had been around his 
neck before Dave threw it away. The big man didn’t 
like it. Therefore it wasn’t right. 

A soft growl sounded in his throat as she came 
toward him, holding the collar and chain invitingly. 
Her high-pitched voice pleaded and cajoled. He 
barked out that he wanted none of that. He only 
wanted Dave. But still she held the foolish thing 
before her. The bark came stronger. 

Dave! Dave! it said as plainly as a dog could 
speak. 

The woman tried to catch him, and her feet sank 
into the sand. She fell down, and from her lips came 
queer sounds that he, recognizing very dimly as hav¬ 
ing heard that day long ago when he had hurt him¬ 
self, and he had heard her maid tell her she must 
not cry. 

“Oh, Pet!” she sobbed. “I’m lost! The car won’t 
go. I shrieked and tooted the horn, but nobody came 
except you. There is someone around, isn’t there? 
Please, Pet, find somebody for me. I’m lost! Lost!’* 

D ave was lost, too. He tried to tell her again. 
And she seemed to understand, for she looked up at 
him, and the queer noises in her throat stopped. 


SONNY 


169 


“That’s it!” she encouraged. “Make a lot of 
noise! Somebody will hear and come to us!” 

The dog lifted his voice again. But it sounded 
harsh and rasping in his throat. He was thirsty. 
The girl seemed to realize it, too, for she went to 
the car and took a shiny bottle from the seat and 
poured some water in a little pan. 

He lapped it eagerly. “I knew my Pettums 
would be thirsty.” She stooped down to pat him, 
and he allowed it—when he had made sure that the 
collar and chain were still on the sand, where she had 
dropped them. 

When the last drops of the water had gone he lifted 
his voice once more in its call for the master. Only 
the echoes answered. The girl, too, tried to help. 
She tooted on the automobile horn. The dog under¬ 
stood, and he thanked her with a short yelp. She 
was very good in her poor way. 

For hours the dog tried vainly to bring an answer¬ 
ing cry from the vast silence. Several times he had 
water. Several times he started off alone to search 
without heeding the frightened cries of the woman. 
There always came the confusion, the aimless running 
hither and thither which he knew would not lead him 
to the big man. 

When he was very tired he allowed the woman to 
lift him into the car. He stood beside her on the 
seat and barked again and again. The sun dropped 
below the hills. The colors of dying day turned to 
the canopy of night. The woman was still beside 
him. She seemed to be sleeping. Fie wanted to 
sleep, too, but there could be no sleep without Dave. 


170 SONNY 

So his voice rang out over the desert, calling, calling, 
calling. 

Then Dave came! 

Far away over the sand that the moon was silver¬ 
ing, the dog saw him. With a wild yelp, he jumped 
from the car. Behind him he heard a cry of fear, 
but he paid no heed. With distance-covering leaps 
he ran toward the big man on the horse. He knew 
it was Dave. He had known it from the first. And 
when he reached him the man swung down from the 
saddle and hugged the dog fiercely to him. 

“Thought I’d lost yuh, dawg,” he said. “Thought 
yuh’d run away complete when the shots woke me. 
Quit again, didn’t I, like an old woman, jest because 
of a little rip in my hide and no bacon. But I did 
come to quick enough, dawg, and knowed it was yuh 
they was after. I tried to help, dawg, but I couldn’t. 
I could on’y lissen, an’ it was hell, Sonny, plain, plumb 
hell. It was on’y the sounds of them six-guns that 
kep’ me from goin’ loco. It told me they hadn’t 
got yuh. An’ they kept goin’ farther an’ farther 
away. Then’s when I started to chew at the heart 
that was in my throat. I snaked down toward Rum- 
devil the way we came. Took a long time, an awful 
long time. An’ there was two jaspers sittin’ there 
smokin’ an’ sayin’ the posse’d followed yuh to get me. 
But I got the drop on ’em an’ took their guns and 
ponies. Then I lit out for the next water hole, and 
circled round an’ round. Oncet I nearly got caught. 
But luck was with me. The posse cursed yuh for a 
devil as they rode back. They give up, boy; give up 
both of us, for I could see it in the way they rode 
an’ by what they said. They’re on their way back 
to Ten Mile now. Then I looked for yuh. Nothin’ 


SONNY 


171 


else mattered. I’d give up, boy, if they’d got yuK. 
But somethin’ told me they hadn’t. So I came north, 
because yuh seemed headed in that direction. An’ 
then I heard yuh shoutin’ at me. Oh, Sonny, dawg, I 
got yuh back!” 

The dog lay quietly against the great chest. He 
touched the big man’s face with his tongue. He 
squirmed and twisted in an [ecstasy of delight. He 
had found Dave! 

The big man lifted his head suddenly. 

“Ain’t that a autermobile over there?” he asked. 
“Thought I heard a horn toot once. ’Tain’t nobody 
that’s goin’ to hurt us, is it, boy?” 

Sonny yelped to tell him it wasn’t. The man’s arms 
dropped him gently to the ground, and the dog ran 
ahead a few steps and barked as he looked back. 
The man spurred after him. 

“If yuh say it’s all right, boy, then it is.” 

The dog barked again. The girl he had almost 
forgotten had helped him, and she seemed to be in 
trouble. It was only fair that they should help her. 

She was standing up in the car when they reached 
it, supporting herself weakly with her hands on the 
seats. As the man took off his hat politely she quietly 
slid back to the cushions and lay there as she had 
lain when the dog was barking beside her. 

“She’s fainted!” Dave jumped from his pony and 
ran to the car. He saw the shiny bottle and shook it. 
“Thank God!” he muttered, and he sprinkled a few 
drops of the precious stuff on her face. Her eyes 
opened, and she repeated the words the man had 
uttered. Sonny wondered why they sounded so 
different when he knew they were both the same. 


172 


SONNY 


“I wanta thank yuh, ma’am, for findin’ my purp 
dawg.” 

Sonny saw her straighten suddenly in the seat. 

“He’s—he’s my dog!” she said. “I came all the 
way out here alone to find him. He—came to me— 
when I was lost.” 

“Your dawg!” Dave’s voice made it an accusation. 
Sonny saw the big man’s face look as it did when Dave 
was angry. There was a little of injured dignity that 
her word might have been questioned in the girl’s 
haughty nod of acquiescence. 

“Yes,” she answered frigidly, “my dog. He—he 
disappeared from the train near here as I was on my 
way to California. I have been searching for 
him-” 

Sonny, his eager eyes on the master’s face, recog¬ 
nized that thunderous cloud that drew the brows to¬ 
gether. Dave was angry; too angry at first to 
unloosen the rush of words that clove to the roof of 
his mouth. When he did speak, the girl instinctively 
drew back. 

“Your dog!” he sneered. “An’ yuh let him get 
beat tuh pieces an’ kicked off’n the Overland!” His 
voice rose. “No!” He boomed out, his notes ring¬ 
ing far over the desert. “He’s my dawg! I found 
him dyin’. I fixed him, an’ he’s saved my life a 
dozen times. He’s my dawg!” But even as he 
spoke, the big man seemed to be trying to make him¬ 
self believe what he said was true. He knew though, 
as he knew how he wanted the dog, how under other 
circumstances he would fight for Sonny, that what the 
girl said was true. He slumped for a moment, 
shoulders drooping, head bowed as it had bowed in 
that weary ride over the desert; then straightened 



SONNY 


173 


himself with the gesture of a beaten soldier who 
would surrender his arms. 

“I reckin you’re right, ma’am,” he said wearily. 
“Course it had to be that way. Anything a man loves 
an’ wants to hoi’ on to is taken away. I’d like to buy 
him, but yuh can’t buy a dawg like him—yuh—can’t 
do nothin’ but love him. Oh, Sonny, dawg, it’s come!” 

He bent down and lifted the dog, and held him 
cradled in the great arms. Then he dropped him with 
jarring suddenness. 

“Can’t do that!” he muttered. “I—wouldn’t be 
able to let him go in a minute.” 

He sw r ung to his pony. 

“Good-by,” he said, and Sonny could not under¬ 
stand that tone of voice. He had never heard it before, 
and could not place it. “I’m glad I was able to find 
your dawg, ma’am. His name’s Pet, ain’t it?” 

The saddle creaked as he swung to it. The dog 
ran to him, and barked joyously. 

“You aren’t going to leave me?” The cry came 
from the woman. “I’m lost. The car won’t go. I’ve 
got to get back!” 

Sonny saw Dave look down at the car. Then he 
heard the man speak, still in that same strange voice: 
“If there’s a rope in the car, I reckin my pony kin 
drag it out and set you right. Go straight ahead by 
that bright star up there. I won’t go with yuh 
because I’d be too welcome back there in Ten Mile. 
An’ I reckin it’s just as well. Somehow I’m half glad 
yuh found your dawg. Maybe he’ll be safer with yuh 
than he would with me—an’ I want to see him safe. 
That’s all that counts.” 

As he talked, the big man fumbled in the tool box. 
He found a rope and fixed it. 


174 


SONNY 


“Start her!” he ordered curtly. The woman made 
the engine roar. The pony tugged, and the wheels 
came right. 

“That star up there,” pointed out Dave. 

“You won’t leave me?” the woman sobbed. 
“Please! Please! I’ll give you anything you ask. 
Anything!” 

The man stood beside his horse, with his hand on 
the saddle. Sonny rubbed his body against the 
master’s leg. He looked up at his face, and barked 
happily. Everything was all right now; they could 
start. 

“There’s nothin’ left for me to want,” the big man 
said, and something in the voice made the dog whine 
in sudden fear. The man lifted him and set him in 
the seat beside the woman. “Nothin’!” he said 
softly. Then his great head went up. For a 
moment he looked at the stars and the desert. He 
swung into the saddle. “I’ll take yuh!” he said. 
“Might as well lose the only thing I got that ain’t 
w T orth nothin’. Maybe that five hundred’ll buy a nice 
bunch of food for Pet here.” 

The automobile moved slowly. The dog tried to 
jump out, but he saw the man riding beside them. 
There was something wrong somewhere. What it 
was the dog didn’t care. He only knew that he was 
with Dave and they were going together once more. 
And the big man’s eyes were on the bright star ahead; 
the star that twinkled so brightly over Ten Mile, 
where men were waiting and watching and cursing 
Dave Deering and his dog. 


CHAPTER XII 


T HE desert car pounded and throbbed as it 
skirted the high sand dunes and wallowed 
through the arroyo bottoms. 

The dog, on his comfortable cushion, eased his 
tired body that had had no rest for so many 
strenuous, weary hours. The body rested; but the 
brain behind the bright eyes could get no rest. There 
was something wrong! Vainly the animal tried to 
understand the thing for which there was no under¬ 
standing. After all his hours of seeking, of heart 
yearning, Dave had come to him. But now Dave 
rode silently—alone. His big body w T as slumped 
down in the saddle. The head with its shock of mid¬ 
night hair under the low-pulled sombrero—the head 
usually held so proudly high—was lowered. 

Sonny had seen that attitude; knew it. But be¬ 
fore it had been the thirst; the terrible, rag¬ 
ing thirst that burned and blistered. Now there was 
no thirst. Dave had taken a long drink from the 
shiny bottle the girl had given him. He seemed glad 
to get it. And the dog was glad that she had given it 
to the master. He had thanked her with the touch 
of his nose on her arm. He had tried to leap out 
and show her that anything given to the man he loved 
was given to him. 

Dave had curtly ordered him to keep his seat. 
That was the first of the curious things that Sonny 
could not comprehend. Of course there had been the 

175 


176 


SONNY 


strange words of the girl when she had said that Sonny 
was her dog. But that was too foolish for considera¬ 
tion. Dave was his master, his god, his all. The 
rose girl had been nice and kind when the dog was a 
puppy. But now he was grown. He was Dave 
Deering’s dog. 

Then, too, he sensed that there was something 
wrong in their going back. It was all very strange. 
Just when everything should be right there was some¬ 
thing wrong. What was it? Why? Dave was 
going back because he wanted to go back. He had 
said so. That was the thing which puzzled the dog. 
If the master did a thing, it must be right. Yet it 
wasn’t. Sonny knew it. He saw it in the way Dave 
Deering rode his horse. 

The eyes of the dog closed. Exhaustion demanded 
its tithe at last. He slept in the seat. The voice 
of the master waked him. 

“Yuh’ll take care them jaspers don’t get a chancet 
to sling lead at him, won’t yuh, miss?” In the big 
man’s tone was a note of pleading. “Yuh see, I’m 
reckonin’ he’ll be safer with yuh than he will with me. 
An’ I sure do owe him that. No man ever had a pal 
like him, an’ things’ll be a whole lot easier with me if 
I know he’s all right.” 

Sonny felt the pounding and throbbing under him 
cease, and he knew the car had stopped. 

“Why should they want to kill my dog?” de¬ 
manded the girl, and Sonny didn’t like the impatience 
in her voice. No one should talk to the big man that 
way! 

Silence. Sonny sat up on his haunches. He saw the 
hand of Dave fumbling with the pony’s reins. Then 
Dave spoke, and the words came hard, as they had 


SONNY 


177 


when the man and the dog had sat in the arroyo, 
waiting for the riding men to reach the Rumdevil and 
their tracks. 

“Well, yuh see, ma’am”—Dave’s hat seemed to 
bother him, because he kept pulling it forward and 
pushing it back—“us people out here in the desert 
country ain’t much on brains. An’ some’s even less’n 
others. There’s people over’n in Ten Mile that 
think my—er—I mean Pet there—is a right vicious 
animal. They’ve given him a bad name, ma’am.” 

“Maybe it was the company he was in!” snapped 
the girl. 

Sonny stood on his four legs and looked at her. 
Here was another strange thing in the maze of strange 
things. He had never heard her talk like that. Her 
voice had always been soft and gentle. Now it 
seemed to have the same tone as had the sheriff’s voice 
back there in Ten Mile when he had refused to let Dave 
have a gun. It was different, of course, but it was 
curiously the same to the dog that got most of his 
knowledge of meanings from tone inflections. 

“Yes’m,” Dave answered very meekly. “Maybe 
so. But, yuh see, he didn’t have no chancet to pick 
his company. When I found him he was jus’ a poor 
little ball of blood an’ hurt that’d been beat with a 
chain and kicked off’n the Overland. But even then 
he was a man-d awg, ma’am. Pie tried to bite me. 
Yussir! Him dyin’ there, an’ he went right after 
a big husky like me. Size' never made no diff’rence 
to him. An’ he’s done other things, too, that made 
us more’n pals. We was brothers. An’ when a clawg 
an’ man’s brothers it means a lot more’n bein’ in the 
same fam’ly, ma’am. Yuh’re right about the 
company he kept bein’ responsible. That’s why I’m 


178 


SONNY 


tryin’ to do the square thing now. I know yuh’ll 
treat him right. That’s why it don’t make so much 
diff’rence ’bout me goin’ back to Ten Mile.” 

Sonny jumped down from the seat. That was a 
tone he recognized and knew. He did not understand 
all of the words. But Dave spoke as he had spoken 
so many times when they had been alone in the moun¬ 
tains, when only the dog was there to hear. There 
was in the heavy voice that same gentle wistfulness, 
the slow drawl that sounded so fine to a dog’s ears. 

The girl’s hand tried to restrain him. But he 
eluded it with a twist of his lithe body. Dave was 
talking to him and of him. The girl could not know 
what it was all about. She had never been in the 
mountains with nothing but the birds and the trees 
and Pete and Dave. She had never sat at the feet of 
the big man and listened to the voice that told so much 
that mere words could never tell. 

Two long leaps took him to the pony. He stood 
with his forefeet against the horse’s side, and looked 
up into Dave’s face that had been shaded by the 
pulled-down hat. A low whine came from his throat. 
Dave looked as though something had hurt him. 
That queer twist of lips that the dog had come to 
know indicated pleasure was missing. They were 
set as they had been when the men were seeking 
him. The dog sniffed the desert air. Perhaps the 
master had seen the men again. No. Only the girl 
was near. 

She spoke, and the dog realized that neither had 
said anything for a long time. 

“Have you any reason for not wishing to return 
to the town?” she asked. 

Dave’s hand rested lightly on the square Airedale 


SONNY 


179 


head of the dog. The clumsy fingers tweaked the 
ears lovingly. Then the hand drew away and went 
back to the reins. 

“Go back to the autermobile, dawg!” he 
commanded. 

The dog whined again, pleadingly. A shake of 
the man’s head told him there would be no chang¬ 
ing of that order. Then the man on the horse 
answered the girl’s question as the dog slunk to his 
cushioned seat. 

“Not now, ma’am,” Dave said simply. 

Sonny felt one of the woman’s arms around his neck. 
It was a soft arm, and he allowed it to rest there 
because the man had ordered him to return. Prob¬ 
ably this was one of the things he had been sent back 
for. He didn’t like it, though. There was none of 
the rough pressure that told of love and kindness. It 
was only soft and light and a little annoying. 

“Are you an outlaw?” demanded the girl suddenly, 
and there was a quality in the tone that made the dog 
draw away from her side and stand up. 

He saw Dave’s head come up so that the rays of 
the moon got under the sombrero brim and lighted 
the rugged, bronzed face of the master. 

“I’m Dave Deering, ma’am.” 

The dog yelped joyously at the sound of that name. 
Now things would be all right. She would know now 
that it was Dave. The strange things which were so 
puzzling to a dog would be all cleared up. When she 
knew Dave- 

A sharp gasp from beside him caused the dog to 
turn in sudden inquiry. The girl had withdrawn her 
arm from his neck. She was staring at the man on 
the horse. Not as she should have stared. Not with 



180 


SONNY 


the look that the dog’s study of human faces told him 
should express joy and happiness, but with the look 
he had seen on the face of Dan, the brakeman, when 
he had leaped at the man’s wrist back at Ten Mile; 
the look that had been in the eyes of the sheriff when 
the weight of the leaping dog drove him backward 
to the floor of the jail. 

“Deering!” he heard her whisper, her voice harsh. 
“Dave Deering! I saw the posters at the station in 
Ten Mile—and—on trees and rocks as I came along! 
A murderer! A thief!” 

“Yes’m!” Sonny saw the man’s face as he had seen 
it so many times in those moon-lighted nights in the 
mountains. Tilted upward, with the eyes shining 
bright and steady as the stars seemed to shine over 
the treetops of the hills. “Yes’m,” Dave repeated. 
“An’ that there’s my vicious dawg you read about, 
too. That’s the pal of mine burly men is warned to 
shoot b’fore they try to get me. That there little Pet 
yuh had yore arm ’round.” 

Sonny felt the arm go over his neck again. He 
ducked his head and brushed it aside. It was no time 
for petty annoyances now. The god was himself 
again. Even the slight curve of the lips were there 
that always came before the queer throat noises of 
pleasure. He would not be ordered back to the car 
again! He could take his place where he belonged— 
beside the man. Dave had said that he was a 
vian-dog. 

His yelp of joy sounded sharp ajid shrill in the still¬ 
ness. There was no restraining hand that attempted 
to hold him for the moment. He was on the sand. 
One leap toward the horse. 

“Back, dawg, back!” Again that order; then the: 


SONNY 


181 


slow, soft voice of the man continued: “I guess that’s 
goin’ to be your place after this. It’ll be a safer place, 
an’ comfortable. Course there won’t be no bacon 
frizzin’ in the mornin’s, an’ none of the nights with 
on’y the trees an’ us in the whole worl’. We’ll both 
miss ’em. Yuh with your easy life. Me with— 
ma’am, we’d better hurry. It’s quite a piece yet back 
to Ten Mile.” 

“He’s isn’t vicious!” the girl’s voice suddenly rang 
out. Her arm went out impulsively across the back 
of the dog that had obediently climbed back to the 
seat. He let it stay there. Nothing mattered now. 
The thing he had thought was right was wrong again. 
Everything was wrong. The man said many strange 
things that a dog could not quite comprehend, but 
which made him fear. 

“He isn’t vicious!” the girl repeated. “He’s the 
kindest, sweetest dog in the world!” Her manner 
changed suddenly. “You’ve trained him to help you! 
To assist you in robbery and murder!” 

“Yes’m.” Dave was still looking at her, and the 
dog whined piteously for a single glance from the 
master. But he did not get it. “Yuh’re right, 
ma’am. I trained him to know what a friend is. It’s 
somethin’ that’s square an’ honest an’ ’ll fight for a 
pal. That’s what your Pet did, ma’am. He hid my 
gun when the man that threw him off’n the Overland 
tried to shoot me. He got me outta jail when a gang 
full of whiskey aimed to lynch me. He sent a dozen 
men skitting over the desert after him so’s they 
wouldn’t get me. His life wasn’t worth a handful 
of sand when them men was tryin’ to do what the 
posters tol’ ’em to do. But I reckin he was glad to 


182 


SONNY 


put that life between them guns an’ me. Yes’m. I 
reckin he was glad. He’s a dawg!” 

There came another long silence. The dog whined 
plaintively. Whined because he did not understand, 
because he was afraid. The curious voices of the man 
and the girl put fear into his heart. The silences be¬ 
tween their words were even more fearful. 

“Yes! He is a dog!” She spoke sharply, and Sonny 
saw her half rise in the seat behind the thing which 
her hands gripped so tightly. “He’s a thoroughbred 
that will fight for anyone he thinks has been kind to 
him. But he’s only a dog. He doesn’t understand. 
He doesn’t know the difference between a murderer 
and anyone else. He doesn’t know that a human can 
pretend to love him so that he can be used as a tool, 
a thing to shield and help a criminal!” 

She was standing up, leaning over the wheel, with 
her hands supporting her body that shook with in¬ 
dignation. 

“But I can understand and know! I can take him 
away before it is too late. Take him away from this 
hideous desert and a man who thinks it clever to 
make a poor dog that doesn’t know any better defeat 
justice and risk its life to shield a murderer!” 

“I reckin yuh can’t see things, miss.” Dave spoke 
very slowly, and the dog, standing in the seat, saw 
that all the shine had gone from the big man’s eyes 
and they stared out hard and cold. “I ain’t-” 

“You can’t deceive me!” she cried. “I don’t think 
I need your guidance. I can find my way. Go yours!” 

“Yes’m. I guess I might as well.” He turned his 
pony without glancing at the girl. “S’long, dawg!” 
Not a look nor a gesture. The pony started slowly, 



SONNY 


183 


kicking up small clouds of the dry dust that the gentle 
night wind whisked away. 

“S’long, dawg!” The words were new to the dog. 
He didn’t remember ever having heard them before. 
Yet he knew them now. He understood them per¬ 
fectly. They sounded just like that terrible command 
Dave had given him that night in the hills when the 
master had ridden off across the desert to Ten Mile 
and its waiting men. 

“Stay!” That had been the command before. It 
was the order now. And once again the man was 
riding away. Different words with the same mean¬ 
ing and the same tone of utterance. 

“S’long, dawg” meant stay! 

It meant the loneliness of the great, empty world 
without the master; the darkness of night with no god 
or light. The whine that came from the dog’s throat 
was different from the others that had sounded in the 
long talk between the man and the girl. Before it 
had been a plea for understanding and knowledge. 
Now it was the piteous realization of what it all 
meant. The master was going, and he was to stay! 

There was no answer. The man on the horse 
did not even turn. He was slouched in the saddle. 
There was not even the hand wave there had been 
that night in the hills. Nothing! Dave rode on. 

The girl dropped back in the seat. 

“Pet!” she sobbed. “Pet!” 

Her hand groped blindly for his neck, with its 
offer of companionship and protection. The soft arm 
was across the wiry, short hairs. But Sonny did not 
even know it. The master was leaving him. The 
pony stumbled as its hoof jammed into a snake hole. 
Dave pulled at the reins. His voice came to the dog 


184 


SONNY 


as it uttered some drawling admonition. That broke 
the spell. 

Sonny was out of the car in a twinkling. What 
mattered orders ? What mattered anything unless he 
could hear Dave’s voice again. He wouldn’t stay! 
Yelps burst from his throat in a continuous cry of 
glad pleading. Dave wouldn’t make him stay. Dave 
w r as kind and good. Once he heard the girl cry out 
behind him. Then he was at the side of the horse. 

For a moment Dave looked down at him with the 
big, soft eyes into which the shine had come again. 
The man’s body swung from the saddle. His arms 
swept the dog from the sand and up against the huge 
chest. For long seconds the animal’s body was 
cradled against the body of the man. Sonny could feel 
the chin of Dave rest against his back. He heard the 
soft-spoken words that the master repeated over and 
over: 

“Dawg! Oh, dawg, dawg!” 

The big arms crushed him with their pressure of 
love. One of the arms relaxed a bit. The pony 
turned and shuffled slowly in the opposite direction. 
Sonny felt the man’s chin lift. He heard w T ords that 
chilled in his throat the bark of joy: 

“Guess yuh’ll have to tie him in, ma’am, till I get 
outta sight. An 7 for God’s sake do it quick! Another 
minute an’ HI steal him. He’s a man-dawg. Here! 
That rubber thing in the back that buttons down. 
Put it round his neck and fix it tight. Get out an’ 
help ! He’s on’y a dog maybe, and ain’t got reasonin’ 
like a human to know right from wrong. But he 
knows a pal!” 

The understanding of what this new move meant 
made Sonny use all his strength in an effort to 


SONNY 


185 


wriggle from the strong arms that held him. The 
girl had risen from the front seat. She climbed into 
the back. Dave leaned over and laid him on the front 
seat. One hand held down the writhing body. The 
girl drew a black, heavy thing about him. He saw 
her fingers work, and heard snaps that meant fasten¬ 
ings. Around his neck! Back of him! In front of 
him! Dave’s hand jerked away. The rubber sand 
blanket of the desert car enveloped him like a bag 
with slippery sides on which his scratching feet could 
get no hold. He was tied. Helpless. And Dave 
had assisted the girl! 

Sonny did not struggle very hard. This blow of 
blows stunned him as had none of the others. Before 
there had only been hurts of the body; the burning 
sting of the sweeping chain in the hands of the brake- 
man, or the thirst of the desert. This terrible new 
thing dazed him. Dave had held him to be tied in the 
automobile! 

The eyes of the dog pleaded in their dumb, mute 
way. The man turned from the car suddenly. His 
hand that had been outstretched for a final pat of 
parting withdrew as though it had been unconsciously 
thrust out to touch some red-hot object. The girl’s 
fingers touched Sonny’s ear caressingly, and he pulled 
his head inside the confining cover. The feel of the 
woman’s hand seemed a desecration. 

“Can’t I buy him, ma’am?” he heard Dave ask, 
and there was a gulping sob in the big man’s voice. 
“I’ll pay for him. I’ll work an’ give anything yuh 
say. On’y let me have him. Please!” 

The car swayed a bit as the girl climbed into the 
front seat. “He’s my dog,” she said coldly. “An’ I 
hardly think that even robbery or murder is profitable 


186 


SONNY 


enough to purchase a prize Airedale. My father 
paid nine hundred dollars for him.” 

“Huh?” The dog thrust his head through the 
opening in the rubber blanket. He saw Dave staring 
at the girl, and his mouth was wide open. The dog’s 
unnoticed whine spoke plainly of his misery that, after 
all this time, after everything Dave should be told of 
the humiliation of that nine hundred dollar thing. 

“Nine hun-” muttered the big man. He turned 

to stare at the queer, square-shaped head, then looked 
keenly at the girl. “I guess yuh’re right, ma’am. I 
couldn’t buy a piece of his tail, miss. I—thought he 
was a poor little mutt! Nine hundred dollars!” 
Sonny saw the tall form suddenly straighten. “I’m 
right glad, ma’am, his price is so far above any ante 
of mine. I’m glad I ain’t got money enough to take 
him off’n your hands. Yuh can’t buy a friend. 
Good-by.” 

He swung onto his horse. “S’long, dawg!” he 
called. 

The dog whimpered a final plea. For a second the 
man sat on the pony and looked at him. 

“Yuh’ve got him, lady,” he said quietly. “Yuh’ve 
got him tight, but I guess he’ll always be my dawg. 
Yes’m.” 

His spurs scratched at the flank of the horse. The 
hoofs kicked at the night-silvered sand of the desert. 

“That bright star plumb ahead, ma’am!” he 
called over his shoulder. 

He was gone. When the car started throbbing its 
way toward Ten Mile Dave Deering was a moving 
speck under the light-dotted sky. 

With the edge of the rubber blanket pulling at his 
neck, the dog stood as high as he could to watch the 



SONNY 


187 


man. There was no turn of the Head. No wave of 
the hand. Dave was going! Going! It had not 
seemed possible at first. Despite the evidence, the 
dog had refused to give credence to so unbelievable 
a thing. Now came the realization. 

Sonny became a small fury let loose. All the 
strength of his lithe, strong body was directed against 
that thing that held him. With teeth and paws he bit 
and scratched. He tugged and pulled till the buttoned 
edge cut deep into his throat. He stopped only when 
the lack of air made him fall exhausted. But the 
buttoned clasps that had been made to defy the clutch¬ 
ing fingers of the wind and sand held tight. His teeth 
could not get a hold. His paws slid across the yield¬ 
ing surface. 

And Dave was going! 

Panting and gasping, he lay for a few minutes to 
get strength for the next fight. Then he was at it 
again. Under the smothering folds he nosed at every 
place that promised an opening. He rolled himself 
into a ball and pushed with rigid paws. But there 
was only the sliding of his braced back against the 
cushions of the seat. 

In the periods of exhaustion that came between the 
fights for liberty and the master, Sonny tried in vain to 
catch a glimpse of Dave. But the man had ridden 
away from the path of the guiding star, cutting 
through the sand dunes to the south of the trail that 
led to Ten Mile. The dog knew this in that same 
mysterious way that enabled him to know so many 
things that only One can explain. 

Each rest was longer than the one that had gone 
before. Each fight that followed lacked a bit of the 
strength and viciousness of the one preceding. 


183 


SONNY 


Finally there were only the weak, ineffectual struggles 
of an utterly tired body. And he lay under the 
suffocating rubber blanket and whimpered with 
smothered, panting sounds that were strangely like 
sobs. 

From time to time he heard the girl’s voice, a 
shaky, hysterical voice that called to him with En¬ 
couraging endearments. He paid no heed. 

Once he heard a frightened cry from the driver of 
the car. He felt the machine stop, then lurch a bit as 
she climbed out. 

“Oh, Pet!” she sobbed. “The star has gone! I 
can’t see it, and I don’t know which way to go. It’s 
desert all around. Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t 
he wait until we were safe?” 

She put her hand into the blanket opening to pat 
the head of the dog. But he eluded it and crawled 
on his belly to the farthest limit of the covering thing. 
He wanted to be alone with his great hurt. He 

wanted to die there, with no one to see or touch him. 

. * 

Once the tips of her fingers brushed the short hairs on 
his back, and he drew his body farther into the corner. 

“You, too, Pet!” she choked. “You’re not going 
to desert me?” 

Sonny paid no attention to the words or the hand 
that fumbled in search of him. He realized dimly 
that something was the matter with her. Why 
shouldn’t there be? Dave was gone. She had sent 
the big man away. She had talked to the master as 
no one ever should talk to him. So he had gone. 
And now she was in trouble. 

“Oh my God!” he heard her moan. The hand 
that had been trying to pet him was drawn away. 
He felt her get from the car. Then he heard her 


SONNY 


189 


sobbing, and he knew that she had not got into the 
automobile again. She was crumpled in the sand 
beside it, a small, helpless thing in the great, wide 
desert. 

The dog was sorry for her. It was too bad 
that she hadn’t known the big man as he knew him. 
Then she wouldn’t have fixed a poor dog so that he 
wasn’t able to do anything. But now he realized that 
she was sorry. She was calling for Dave. The moan¬ 
ing sobs he heard were curiously like the whimpers he 
had uttered. And there was nobody in the world to 
cry for but Dave; Dave who had gone. 

From the dark corner of the blanket he heard her 
stir. Then came a cry, joyous and happy: 

“Someone’s coming, Pet! A man on a horse!” 

She jumped to the car step, and her fingers caressed 
the rough outlines of his body under the blanket. 

“Do you hear me, Pet?” she asked eagerly. “A 
man is coming, a big man on a horse who can lead us 
right. He’s one of the men I saw in Ten Mile when 
I was looking for you!” 

Dave was returning! Those words went through 
the dog’s brain like a song. She said the big man was 
coming back to them. He twisted around and 
crawled back to the opening in the blanket to thrust 
out his head. He wanted to see, to give his starved 
eyes a chance to feast on the sight of the god. 

At first she gave him no chance. She leaned over 
and pressed his head to her shoulder that shook with 
the small noises that still came from her lips. He 
tried to wiggle away. Hysteria and relief made 
her grip fiercely strong. He barked his greeting from 
the smothering folds of her arms. She thought he 
was glad because she had petted him, and she drew 


190 


SONNY 


away to smile down at him through the tears. But he 
did not see. As high as he could he stretched. He 
felt the blanket strain and groan at its fastenings. 
And he saw the riding man. It wasn’t Dave! 

It was Dan! 

It was the brakeman! The man who had beaten 
him and kicked him off the Overland train to die in 
the desert. The man whose wrist he had torn and 
crushed in the bar-room at Ten Mile. 


CHAPTER XIII 


^ fij ^HE dog’s bark shrilled out in rage. Gone was 
all the whimper and whine of mental anguish. 
There was no thought in his brain of his help¬ 
lessness nor of the brute power of the enemy who rode 
toward him. His was only the blind anger that knows 
neither size nor numbers—that yelp of passion. 

He pulled and strained at the thing that held him 
tight. His former struggles had been puny things 
compared with this fight for liberty and a chance at 
the man he hated. Dan swung his pistol on a line to 
fire at the bobbing head that showed over the low 
seat back. Then the man saw that the dog could not 
get at him. 

A laugh that w r as nothing to inspire confidence 
issued from the newcomer’s lips as he drew nearer 
and at last stopped beside the machine. The pistol 
went back to its holster, and the hand that had held 
the reins swept off the man’s sombrero in an 
exaggerated sweep of mock politeness. The other 
hand was tight against his chest in a dirty sling. And 
around the wrist were many bandages. 

“Ah, ma’am!” he grinned evilly. “Looks like now 
I was like to make a mistake. That big hat of your’n 
at a distance, yer see—and, wal, we folks hereabouts 
hain’t exactly lookin’ fer any beautiful fee-males alone 
out here on the desert—killers, men an’ dawgs,” and 
he shot a meaning glance at the dog that had not once 
ceased to snarl and bark at his enemy, “are more in 

191 



192 


SONNY 


our line ’bout now.” His tone changed, as the girl 
nodded. Undoubtedly the man had made a mistake 
when he had seen her across the desert; seen her 
garbed in the khaki riding trousers and sombrero 
which Bill had persuaded her were the proper garb 
and which she had purchased long before she had 
reached Ten Mile. “Havin’ trouble?” he asked, in 
what he undoubtedly meant for a reassuring tone, but 
at which the girl unconsciously shivered. 

“Yes!” she cried eagerly. “I’ve been trying and 
trying to get to Ten Mile and I was told to follow a 
star, but—but,” and her lips trembled piteously, “it’s 
gone! The star’s vanished, and now I don’t know 
whether I’m right or not-” 

The man did not heed her appeal at once. He 
nodded toward Sonny. 

“You must be the one that hit Ten Mile lookin’ for 
a lost dawg, ain’t you?” he asked, irrelevantly. 
“Heard the station master and some of ’em sayin’ 
somethin’ ’bout it—but I reckon ye found out Ten 
Mile folks warn’t havin’ much time to be huntin’ that 
kind of a dawg ’bout then, hey?” The look in the 
man’s eyes made the girl stir uneasily. 

“I saw them,” she said hesitatingly, knowing the 
man would know her meaning. 

“Wal, I see yuh found him,” he snapped off, with 
another nod at Sonny, and speaking loudly to make 
himself heard over the snarling barks of the animal 
that clawed and scratched and bit to get at him. 

“Be quiet, Pet!” the girl chided. “Don’t you know 
this is a man who has come to help us—a man from 
Ten Mile—don’t you remember I told you I had seen 
him there?” speaking more for the benefit of the 
man than the animal. Then she spoke directly to 



SONNY 


193 


Dan: “Yes, I found him, and oh, I’m so thankful. 
No telling what might have happened to him. He 
was wandering all about the desert alone, but after 
I found him, a man came and tried to claim him— 
that outlaw that you men from Ten Mile were after, 
you know—the man whose name I saw on the posters 
D ave Deering, the murderer!” 

Her words had an electrical effect. In one quick 
movement, the man’s gun was out, his eyes sweeping 
the desert. 

“Where did he go?” he demanded. 

“Oh, he left hours ago,” was the answer in a voice 
she bravely sought to keep from trembling. “Ten 
Mile was where he said he was going-” 

All Dan’s previous mood of pretending the gentle¬ 
man to the aid of a lady in distress vanished in a 
moment. The girl drew back frightened as he swung 
lumberingly from his horse, strode over and clutched 
her arm. “You ain’t lyin’?” he snarled. 

She tried to draw away. “Let go!” she cried. 
“You brute! Certainly I’m not lying!” and her voice 
again trembled, this time, though, not with fear, but 
with indignation, as much at the touch of the brutal 
ex-brakeman as at his implication of her lack of 
truthfulness. “He went on before daylight. He has 
probably reached Ten Mile by now.” 

Dan, his hold still on her arm, leered meaningly. 
“I guess he ain’t hittin’ Ten Mile none.” Then his 
dirty unshaven face bent closer to the girl’s own face. 
“An’ I reckon I won’t have much to w r orry about from 
him, now—nor from yuh, either. I reckon I can 
’tend to your case when I’ve got through some other 
business that’s been delayed too long a’ready.” 

The girl struggled with a strength that she would 



194 


SONNY 


hardly have been supposed to have to break the man’s 
hold, but it was not until, with a final meaning, leering 
grin that he pushed her aside that she fell, gasping, 
into the sand which offered no steady foothold. Her 
cheeks blazed with a wrath that was matched only 
by the flame of her eyes. A stealthy crawling motion 
she made toward the step of the car. 

“Sit still!” commanded Dan. “Think yuh could 
git to yer gun, eh ? Pretty spunky dame, at that, eh ? 
I like ’em like that-” 

With his unbandaged arm he searched about the 
front seat of the car until he brought forth the 
revolver he knew would be there. He slipped it 
into his pocket as he grinned evilly at the girl. Then 
he swung around toward the car and the dog that 
vainly fought the rubber blanket. The man’s face 
twisted with fury and gloating. “An’ I got yuh, 
too, now, ain’t I, yuh mangy, murderin’ cur!” 

His gun swung out slowly; leveled. 

“Now I’m goin’ to pay yuh what I owe yuh.” His 
harsh voice strung out with vile oaths. “Ain’t usin’ 
them teeth now, eh?” he mocked. “Well, you never 
will again. I guess maybe it’ll take all these here six 
bullets I got in this gun t’ kill you, the way I’ll use ’em. 
No quick death for you !” 

He jumped to the step of the car. For a second the 
gun muzzle followed the twisting and writhings of 
the dog’s body under the thick rubber. With a curse 
Dan wrenched the arm loose from the sling and 
jammed the elbow tight on the dog’s haunches, crush¬ 
ing the animal flat against the seat. Sonny tried to 
reach him through the opening. But it was im¬ 
possible. The pistol jammed into his side. Under 
the finger the hammer rose slowly. 



SONNY 


195 


“Rip yer hind legs off!” growled Dan gloatingly. 
“That’ll-” 

The dog could not move. The revolver crashed 
out deafeningly over him. He felt the crushing elbow 
suddenly withdraw. Dan staggered from the step 
and backward. 

“You cur!” the girl screamed. The dog could see 
her fighting to hold Dan, her fingers pulling at the 
arm that held the pistol. The ex-brakeman cursed 
her, and swung her backward, staggering. Then he 
leaped at her. The long barrel of the pistol cut its 
arc through the air as he brought it down on her head 
with crushing force. The girl crumbled in the sand 
at his feet and lay still. From over her closed eyes a 
trickling stream of blood started and flowed down 
to mix with the yellow sand grains of the desert. 

“Damn you!” raged the man, and his voice was 
insane. “I came out here to get yuh, and now I have! 
Knew it must be yuh when I heered ’em say a dame 
was lookin’ fer a damn’ pup. Wal, yuh got him, 
didn’t yuh?” he raged at the unconscious girl whose 
blood was staining dark the white sand about her. 
“An’ I’ve got yuh, too, haven’t I?” he went on 
exultingly as he bent lower for a closer view of the 
girl’s perfect features, “—to do with what I like!” he 
added, then with more savage emphasis: “Ought by 
rights tuh finish yuh, here an’ now, but I reckon they’s 
a better w T ay tuh get even with yuh an’ your damn’ 
mutt for spoilin’ the best pickin’s a guy ever had, 
’specially when I had it all fixed so good with that 
slick play I put over on Dave Deerin’-” 

A snarling bark, sharper than the rest, more bitter 
as the dog heard his master’s name on his enemy’s 
tongue, penetrated the girl’s consciousness, even as 




196 


SONNY 


she became dimly aware of the nauseating alcholic 
breath that swept her face. But some instinct, wide 
awake while her more material consciousness still 
struggled to return, bade her keep her eyes closed, to 
simulate the unconsciousness of which the menace 
which bent over her seemed so sure. Vaguely she be¬ 
came aware, too, as had the dog already, that the 
man was speaking, was mentioning the name of that 
other man who had gone—the outlaw, Dave Deering. 
Unaccountably, though, her subconsciousness went 
out to the absent one, in a cry across the void for aid 
in this crisis. Lightning-like, her rapidly returning 
consciousness pictured him. Why, he was no outlaw; 
he couldn’t be! She became fully conscious that the 
man had straightened up and was gazing down at her 
as he went on talking. She had heard that men in the 
solitudes often did this thing. Perhaps she would 
hear something that would give her a clue as to what 
to do in a situation that seemed so wholly helpless. 
That same canny instinct cautioned continued simula¬ 
tion. She must listen! Listen! Again she heard the 
name of the outlaw, spoken with foul mouthings that 
tainted even the wide desert air. 

“Dave Deerin’!” he taunted. “Pro’bly tried to 
play the hero with yuh, too, but couldn’t get away 
with it. Fat chance he had with all Ten Mile lookin’ 
fer him to get him fer old man Tuttle’s murder, an’ 
not a one of ’em even guessin’ that your old friend 
D an had put that old catamount out of business 
when he didn’t have sense enough to know when he 
was licked. An’ heel prints on a stringy old neck like 
that did look almighty like teeth marks, didn’t they, 
Sonny, old sport?” He turned with a leer to the frantic 
animal, long enough for the girl cautiously to open 


SONNY 


197 


her eyes, only to close them with a shudder as she 
saw the vicious face. Afterwards, telling of it, Paula 
Grayson declared that it was the greatest struggle of 
her life to lie still, feigning unconsciousness as the 
brutal ex-brakeman again turned his attention to her, 
his foot moving her in the sand as though spurning. 
Again his face came closer to hers. 

“Wouldn't be much good to do fer yuh, now, 
would it?” he asked the small figure that lay crumbled 
at his feet. “Yuh are a purty thing, too. An’ when a 
feller’s got to lay low in the foothills like I have, on 
account of that snoopin’ railroad ’tec I saw in Ten 
Mile just in time to light out—come in with your 
father, too, didn’t he, but your friend Dan’s too slick 
fer ’em—why, I ’low yuh’ll be a heap more enticin’ in 
exile than any squaw-” 

With a mighty effort of will, the girl kept herself 
from moving. So her dad was in Ten Mile! He 
would find her! She knew he would! He could 
always find a way. Oh, she must —must keep her 
wits about her to fight off this terrible thing until he 
came! Even then, though, the man was not through 
with his monologue to the girl who was at his mercy 
a dozen miles away from any friendly aid, herself so 
injured that it was with difficulty that she could follow 
his meandering words through the pain that seemed 
about to cause her head to split open. 

“Yuh didn’t know me when yuh saw me in Ten 
Mile, did yuh?” he taunted. “Even when yuh knew 
it was the brakeman that’d disappeared with your 
damn’ dawg. ’Twan’t likely a swell Pullman like 
yuh’d recognize a brakeman, though, was it, eh? But 
I ’low yuh’ll have plenty o’ time to get acquainted, 
when Pm through wdth this here killin’ mutt of 



198 


SONNY 


your’n.” For the first time he seemed to see the blood 
about the girl’s head. Roughly his hand pushed back 
the hair for a view of the wound. “Yuh!” he 
ejaculated. “Thought mebby I’d done fer yuh, after 
all—not sech a bad riddance—but mebby i oughtn’t 
tuh a smashed yuh quite so hard—might interfere 
with your usefulness, but I reckon not—mebby it’ll 
be a good lesson a little later on-” 

Paula Grayson’s head was swimming around as the 
universe seemed to close in on her. Would the man 
never stop talking? Her mind, that for a few 
moments had been keenly conscious, blurred. A 
hundred things passed in swift procession before her 
closed eyes. Dad was in Ten Mile. He was looking 
for her. She had found Pet—the man mustn’t be 
allowed to hurt him—there was the outlaw, Dave 
Deering—probably he was a bad outlaw, but her 
blurred senses told her that she alone knew that he 
had not done that terrible thing at Ten Mile—nor 
had Pet—she must get up some way and tell those 

men to quit hunting him—she must- Closer and 

closer the universe closed in. Her head was hurting 

so—she was sleepy, too- And had not Paula 

Grayson’s eyes already been closed, they would have 
closed in earnest. Merciful nature had drowsed 
her into the unconsciousness from which she had 
for a few moments struggled; eased her pain and 
saved her from a sight which would have broken her 
tender heart. Dave Deering’s name was on the ex- 
brakeman’s lips as the last word she heard, but she 
did not hear what it was he said. Only the dog heard 
that, and he knew only that there was menace for his 
loved master in the words. 

“So Dave Deering’s went back to Ten Mile, has 





SONNY 


199 


he?” he sneered. “Like hell he has! He’s hiked for 
the other side of the desert, jest like yuh an’ me will, 
my fine lady—and he’ll stay there, too—away from 
us!” 

The growls of the dog stopped the torrent of 
words and made Dan swing once more toward the 
car. 

“Now I’ll get yuh!” he snarled. 

The automobile lurched as he sprang onto the 
seat. The dog leaped to meet him. And the clutch¬ 
ing end of the rubber threw him back, choking and 
half insensible from the pain of the edge against his 
windpipe. 

A leering grin twisted the man’s face. Sonny 
staggered to his feet and shook off the blindness and 
dizziness. Undaunted he struggled again to leap 
through the thing that held him. Pain or the realiza¬ 
tion of escape’s impossibility never occurred to his 
brave heart. Only the burning, gleaming hate that 
shone in his eyes and fired his whole brain actuated his 
movements. He wanted to get out! To bite and 
tear and kill the man who gloated over his 
helplessness. 

“Ho! Ho!” laughed his enemy as a third leap 
brought a red streak to the throat where the edge of 
the rubber had cut into the flesh under the hair. Sonny 
lay for minutes before he was able to scramble to his 
feet and resume his attempts to get at Dan. 

The revolver came from its holster and was 
leveled. The dog jumped to meet it. The rubber 
blanket edge tore his throat cruelly, and the grayish 
yellow of the hair became crimson. But the man 
only laughed. Then he nodded his head as though 
some new thought had come and had been approved. 


200 


SONNY 


“That’s it!’’ he grunted, his yellow teeth bared 
with a grin of triumph. “Even shootin’ yuh in sec- 
tions’d make it over too quick. Can’t get me now! 
Damn yuh!” 

He stepped to the sand, and went back to the pony. 
He glanced at the girl, and saw that she had not 
moved. The sand grains under her head were 
crimson. He growled at her. Then he took the rope 
from the pommel of the saddle and made the loop 
small. He jumped to the car. Another thought, and 
he dropped the rope. 

“Oughta be stakes in the box!’’ he muttered. 
“Desert cars usually carry ’em.’’ He lifted the cover 
of the chest on the rear and lifted out half a dozen 
location stakes. With a wrench he drove them into 
the ground in a small rectangle. Back to the car he 
went. For minutes he waited patiently with the loop 
suspended until the dog got power enough to continue 
his leapings. 

There was a quick movement of the man’s wrist. 
The loop caught the head of the dog. Tightened. 
Its rawhide strands bit into the lacerated neck and 
shut off all the air that the burning lungs needed. 
Tighter! Tighter! The flaming swords of crimson 
that the rising sun were sweeping over the desert 
changed to black. The dog was choking; slowly, 
slowly. His feet scratched and kicked. But the 
movements were only parodies of his former efforts. 

A new pain, sharper, more poignant than the 
others, brought him back to life. The rubber blanket 
was gone. He was out of the car. Dan’s elbow was 
crushing him into the sand. Before his eye was a 
stake. Fie twisted his head a bit. There was another. 


SONNY 


201 


A weak movement made the elbow jam harder. Over 
his back, around him, he felt a rope. 

The holding elbow withdrew. He tried to spring 
after it, teeth bared. But something held him. The 
thing around his neck tightened. There were other 
things all around him. Ropes! He could not move. 
And over him, just out of reach of those teeth, was 
the face of the man he hated and the throat, the dirty, 
unshaven throat that his teeth could grip and tear. 

“Wouldn’t yuh like to get loose?” sneered Dan. 
“Well, maybe yuh’ll like it a whole lot more when 
yuh’ve fried all day in the sun, an’ all day t’-morra, 
too, if yuh last that long. Yuh’d think of bitin’ me 
then all right, all right. Damn yuh! An’ there ain’t 
no chance of anybody findin’ yuh. This ain’t in the 
track of travel. Happy dreams!” 

Gloating, he stood and watched the weak, in¬ 
effectual fight of the dog against the deep-driven 
stakes and the loops of the rawhide lariat. He turned 
toward where the girl lay on the sand. She moaned 
faintly and stirred. He sloshed toward her, and 
stood with pistol still drawn looking at her. He held 
it loosely in his palm as he stared down at the 
tumbled hair that lay like tiny rivulets of brown with 
traces of gold glinting in them. The neck, under the 
tendrils of short hair, was white and soft. 

A chuckle started in the throat of the man and 
came through the yellow teeth. The pistol went back 
to his belt. 

“Come on, we’re goin’ tub take a trip t’gether, 
kid,” he laughed hoarsely. “I can run one of them 
desert cars all right. Ain’t goin’ to waste yuh with a 

bullet.” 

She groaned as he picked her up roughly. Her 


202 


SONNY 


eyes opened as he slung her like a bag of meal into 
the rear seat, then closed again as a shiver made her 
body shake. Dan went over to the pony that stood 
quietly with the reins dangling. He unsnapped the 
bridle and slipped the saddle from the animal’s back, 
throwing them into the front seat. His gun put a 
bullet between the horse’s eyes, and, without a back¬ 
ward glance, the ex-brakeman got behind the wheel 
and his foot pressed the starter. The machine leaped 
forward and gained speed over a level stretch of 
packed sand. Once Dan turned and swung his band¬ 
aged arm awkwardly in a mocking good-by to the 
dog. 

Sonny was alone f 

The dog did not lift his head. His eyes, half openi 
down near the sand, were blinded by the glare of the 
sun on the bright grains. He closed them again. 
There was no attempt to fight loose from the fasten¬ 
ings. Even the unreasoning instinct, the rage and 
hate that had driven him so futilely against the ex- 
brakeman, seemed to have died like a smothered fire. 
The numbness of exhaustion that made his muscles 
incapable of action lay heavy on the brain that was 
usually so alert. 

The searing rays of the sun beating down remorse¬ 
lessly burned into the dog’s brain the necessity of re¬ 
lief. His legs stirred with mechanical weakness, un¬ 
aided by conscious volition of the mind. The cutting 
thongs spurred the deadened brain. It worked back¬ 
ward at first. It was the heat that made him suffer. 
It had been the heat some time in the past that had 
driven him and Dave to the water hole. That was 
the thing for him. Water! 

When he found that he could not roll over to his 


SONNY 


203 


feet, he doubled them under him and lifted. His 
body was curiously heavy. Then the pressing strands 
of rawhide that crisscrossed his body made him 
understand. Strangely enough the understanding was 
very clear when it did come. Perhaps a thought 
spark flashed into his brain. Perhaps a glimmer of 
reasoning had come to light the darkness that wisest 
men tell us fills the brain of a dog. Perhaps the lesson 
of his foolish fight to escape from the automobile re¬ 
mained in his memory. But now he knew— knew — 
that his teeth and paws and strong back were power¬ 
less to break the things which held him. 

Alone and helpless, Sonny did the thing that his man 
brothers have always done and will do until the end 
of time. He lifted his voice in supplication to his 
god: 

Dave! Dave! Dave! 

Out over the soundless desert that cry rolled. 
Behind it was all the power left in the lungs. Under 
it was all the strength there is in prayer. Between 
each barking call the dog’s head lay back on the sand, 
from which it must be lifted to prevent the fine dust 
from swirling into his eyes as he barked. 

Dave! Dave! Dave! 

A squat, ugly-looking swift crawled sluggishly 
toward him and blinked inquiringly with its lizard 
'eyes. A shadow passed across the dog’s eyes. 

Another. Then a third. He looked up. Three 

giant birds circled and swooped above him. Others 
were coming. A palsy of fear shook his body as he 
recognized instinctively the menace in their taloned 
claws and flesh-tearing beaks. In ever-narrowing 
circles, swooping lower, darting and diving, they 
hovered over him. 



204 


SONNY 


He barked up at them, and sudden fear 
strengthened his voice. For a time they went higher, 
but his lack of movement brought them close again. 
Around and around. Back of him he heard several 
sweep down to the earth and stay there. They were 
waiting for him, waiting for him to die. He wouldn’t 
die! Dave wouldn’t let him die! 

Does the One on high, who answers the prayers of 
men, heed the prayers of a dog? Or was it just luck 
—the name men have given in a weak attempt to ex¬ 
plain the inexplicable—that brought the sound of 
hoofs in the padding sand, the huge shadow that drew 
nearer and stopped beside him. 

“Dawg!” It was the voice of the big man, a 
sobbing, choking voice. Sonny lifted his head. Dave 
had come! 

“Dawg!” repeated the master as he knelt down. 
His clumsy fingers shook and trembled as they 
fumbled with the knots. Sometimes they slipped in 
their jerking and hurt the dog. But each hurt was a 
caress. He tried to twist his head so that he could 
lick the big hands of the man. He felt the strands 
loosen. 

Strong arms gently lifted him and held him 
tenderly against Dave’s body. For many minutes, 
unheeding the sun that beat down, the big man sat on 
the sand and held the dog, while the husky voice said 
that one term of endearment time after time. The 
dog lay quiet. The happiness made him forget all 
the pain that had gone before. 

“It was Dan, wasn’t it, boy?” Dave asked 
presently. “Nobody but that buzzard meat would do 
such a thing. Lord, boy, I’m glad I could come! I 
hid down there near Ten Mile for hours to see that 


SONNY 


205 


yuh came in safe. Then I knew yuh’d got lost out 
here, and I came back to set yuh right. I saw the 
buzzards first, and I w T as sick, Sonny, sick till I heard 
yuh. Tied yuh down to die! Oh, damn him, damn 
him! Must ’a’ got past me in the circle I was making 
to be careful.” 

For the first time since he had found the dog the 
man seemed aware of the buzzards that were still 
circling. 

“He shot his horse an’ left it.” The big man 
jumped to his feet in sudden realization. “Where’s 
the girl, boy? Did he take her?” 

The dog, held tight in his big arms, barked. He 
barked again, stronger this time. Yes, they had both 
gone. There would be no more trouble. 

“Good God!” Dave jumped to his feet. “A girl 
like that with him!” 

The tone made the dog look up in sudden ques¬ 
tion. Dave was sorry she had gone? Why? She 
had sent him away. She had talked to him in an 
awful manner. Now he wanted her back. That was 
plain from the way he spoke. 

“We’ve got to find her, boy! Quick!” The big 
man hurried to his horse. “Course she was pretty 
nasty. But she comes from a part of the country 
that don’t understand a lot of things. Even if she 
done a whole lot more than she did do to me I 
wouldn’t leave her where that thing that makes tracks 
like a man could lay his hands on her. How long 
they been gone? Eh?” 

The dog did not answer. He was pained. Dave 
wanted to go back to her. He didn’t want to stay 
alone with the dog. Sonny wriggled in protest. There 
shouldn’t be anybody in the world but the two of 


206 


SONNY 


them. Things had been wonderfully fine before 
others had come to mar their Eden. 

“An’ yuh was all tied up so’s yuh couldn’t take 
care of her!” the man said slowly. 

Sonny thought he understood then. That was why 
the big man had left him. To protect the girl. Per¬ 
haps the master, who knew everything, had known 
that Dan was coming and had trusted her safety 
with the dog. And he had failed. Now Dave must 
go to protect her. 

“Think yuh can stand ridin’?” asked the man 
anxiously. Tie held the dog out in his arms and 
looked at him searchingly. Finally his head nodded. 
“If I didn’t know yuh, I’d say no! But yuh was 
worse used up than this that first night we rode off’n 
the desert. Ah, boy! There’s the tracks. Headin’ 
up to the foothills. Pretty plain followin’, but God 
knows how many hours’ lead they got.’’ 

Into the saddle he swung. The horse started, 
slowly at first. The man looked down at the bright 
eyes of the dog that blinked up at him with trust and 
and love. He eased the body in his big arms and 
scratched the flanks of his horse with his spurs. At 
full speed they started back over the desert in the 
direction of the mountains. 


CHAPTER XIV 


T HERE had been what Dan the brakeman con¬ 
sidered good cause for his angry bitterness 
which had come to a head in his vituperative 
[explosions toward Paula Grayson and her dog out 
there in the desert. In his twisted brain he believed 
he had as good reason to consider her a menace, if 
not to his freedom, at least to his further depreda¬ 
tions, as he had to seek inhuman revenge on the 
animal that had torn his wrist in long gashes that 
still throbbed and ached. 

For, back in Ten Mile, things had been happening 
before that desert meeting—and with such sudden¬ 
ness that had not Dan’s lucky star still for the moment 
been in the ascendant, it would have been unlikely 
that he would have been out on the desert at all. 
He would, instead, have been accepting the hospital¬ 
ity of Sheriff Bill in that portable garage jail, the 
pride of Ten Mile, waiting while a keen-eyed person 
with a calculating smile went through the process 
of taking him away from there to other places where 
Dan little wished to go. 

A few hours before, while groups of disgusted 
men who had formed the posse which had returned 
empty-handed from the desert chase after Dave 
Deering were still discussing the best course to pur¬ 
sue, the thing had happened that had made the 
former railroad employee decide that his own best 
course of action was to go away from Ten Mile, 

207 


208 


SONNY 


and to go quick—while the going was good. He 
had been a member of a group that was hanging 
about the station platform, expecting the short stop 
of the five-ten which would give them at least for a 
few moments something else to talk about than their 
rancor at their failure to find the man they had been 
so anxious to lynch. Worn out from his own unac¬ 
customed exertions on horseback as a member of the 
posse, Dan had dropped for a moment on the couch 
with its ragged patchwork quilt that more or less 
eased the body of the crippled station master when 
there were no other duties—which, it might be re¬ 
marked, was rather a good part of the time. He did 
not rise even when the train came pantingly to a stop. 

It was not until it had started on its way, and he 
heard the voices of strangers, that he roused him¬ 
self. Strangers were not much in Dan’s line. In a 
moment he was on his feet peering through the alkali- 
dust-stained window in front of the small array of 
telegraph instruments. In the midst of the group 
of Ten Mile inhabitants were two strangers. One of 
them was facing him; a big man he was, fine, with 
the pomposity of known power that showed in all his 
rugged features, accentuated by shaggy gray brows. 
Those brows were the most noticeable feature of his 
facial architecture. The big gray man was speaking 
to the other whose back was toward the window. 

“Guess our paths part here, Mark, old boy,” He 
said, as his hand went out heartily to the other. 
“Can’t thank you enough for trailing that girl of mine 
through all these towns. I suppose some of these 
chaps here can lead me to her now, if she has eloped 
or something of the kind with a shaggy cowboy. 
Eh?” he asked, turning to the gaping Ten Milers, 


SONNY 


209 


obviously awed by the big gray man’s manner no less 
than by his clothing. The latter was of a sort that 
Ten Mile had seen worn only by the inevitable banker 
in the movies that periodically were put on in the 
big back room of Si Logan’s bar-room and dance 
hall. 

The big man’s keen eyes searched for one who 
might be considered a leading spirit. Unerringly his 
hand shot out toward Sheriff Bill, big as himself, 
masterful with the dignity of being the town’s most 
important man. “Name’s Grayson,” said the 
stranger, as he shook the other’s horny hand heartily. 
“From New York. Stopped off because I heard my 
run-away daughter had been seen here, and I want to 
find her. Hunting for a dog or a handsome cowboy 
—not quite sure which. Seen anything of her?” 

He glanced around keenly at the station master’s 
chuckle. 

“Lookin’ for her ; be ye?” he grinned. “Then I 
’low yuh’re in fer a purty long ride. She was here 
all right—yebtiddy—but the last seen of her she was 
headin’ fer the desert licketty split all alone in the 
best desert-going car that’s been seen ’bout Ten Mile 
in a long while-” 

Jonathan Grayson’s smile died and there ap¬ 
peared on his lips the grim lines that any of his 
associates back in the city he had left could have told 
the men of Ten Mile meant business. He whirled 
from the station master to face the sheriff whose eyes 
dropped uncomfortably before the glare. 

“And you mean to say that you men of Ten Mile—• 
Western men who pride themselves on their chivalry 
—you let a girl, a tender young girl like her—go off 
into the desert by herself?” 



210 


SONNY 


“Wal,” the sheriff’s drawl was as much from dis¬ 
comfiture as it was from a matter of habit. He was 
sparring for time under the blaze of those fierce eyes 
beneath their shaggy brows—he, the sheriff of Ten 
Mile, who had never quailed before a man killer. 
“Wal,” he finally emitted, “it was like this, Mr. 
Grayson. Ten Mile men folks was considerable busy 
yestiddy when yuh’re daughter hit town. Little 
matter of goin’ out into the desert ourselfs to fetch 
back a jasper that had murdered our postmaster and 
in general outlawed hisself with the help of a vicious 
'dog—and they wa’n’t nobody to stop this here young 
female outside of Hank here,” he waved his hand 
toward the crippled station master, “onless it had 
been Injun Joe, an’ he hain’t been seen ’round these 
two weeks. Yes, sir, men folks was considerable 
scarce hereabouts yestiddy-” 

Grayson shot out a question. 

“Did you get him?” 

The shame-faced looks of the baffled group 
answered him. 

“Wal, yuh see that dog of his kinder helped him 
someways—that dawg of his is in league with the 
Old Scratch hisself, ef yuh ask me, an’-” 

Jonathan Grayson waited for no more. This was 
serious. What he had persistently thought a girlish 
prank might well end in disaster. A dangerous out¬ 
law out there on the desert somewhere near Ten’ 
Mile, and Paula! She had gone out into the desert 
alone! For what reason he did not know; could not 
[even guess. It was enough that he knew she had 
gone; had not returned, and that she was out in those 
vast white wastes in near proximity to a man whom 
his own fellows had but a few hours before been 




SONNY 


211 


hunting down as they would a mad coyote. His 
voice, stern, ringing, boomed out over the sage brush 
country. 

“Get me horses, quick!” he demanded, and again 
he turned to the sheriff. “And men! As many as 
you can. That posse is re-organized, and this time 
I’m going to take a hand!” 

Charlie Meeks who had been a silent listener, de¬ 
cided that, in view of the fact that he had been a 
relative of the murdered man, it was time for him to 
put in his word. 

“They’se five hundred dollars reward for Old 
Man Tuttle’s murderer,” he began insinuatingly, but 
he was cut short by the big gray man who showed 
such astonishing ability to whirl incontinently on who¬ 
ever spoke. 

“Then there’ll be five thousand to divide among 
you—ten thousand—if you find my girl!” 

The pig eyes of Dan the brakeman who had been 
listening behind his dust-screened window lit with a 
light of cupidity. He had hitched up his trousers pre¬ 
paratory to joining the party and declaring himself 
in when the next words brought him up with a jerk. 
The big man was speaking again, this time to the 
other stranger whose face had not been turned toward 
the window, but in whose shoulders, carriage, Dan 
had been sensing something familiar, and sensing it 
with a discomfort of something unpleasant that had 
once happened or was to come. So far, though, the 
man had not spoken. 

“You’ve already done a lot for me, Salter,” 
snapped the big man, “but I want you to do more. 
Get that damned brakeman that got my daughter’s 
dog, and you can name your own reward! Oh, I 


212 


SONNY 


know,” as the other started to protest, “I know how 
glad you’ll be to get him on your own account, but 
things like train robberies are small compared to 
the way I feel right now.” 

Then the other spoke, and his voice reached the 
^eavesdropping ex-brakeman at the same time that he 
turned and Dan got a view of his face. As though 
shot, he dropped to the floor beneath the window 
and the protection of the telegraph table. Then 
cautiously, on hands and knees, he began making 
his way across the small room to the open win¬ 
dow at the rear, near which his own and other 
ponies were tethered. Though the words of the man 
outside were spoken in an ordinary conversational 
tone, they fairly boomed in the ears of the crawling 
figure. 

“Oh, I’ll get him, Mr. Grayson,” he assured, and 
the laugh that accompanied the words was as assured 
as it was nasty. “I haven’t been after that robbing 
fiend three months for nothing. Didn’t have much 
of a clue until lately, but I think I can safely say that 
it was through your daughter and her dog that we 
at last got on the right track as to who was 
responsible for all those hold-ups.” 

The red rage that seared the brain of Dan Dugart 
as his searching hands reached up for the window sill 
all but blinded him. That damn’ dog again! And now 
he had put Mark Salter on his trail—Salter, the rail¬ 
road detective who had it to his credit that he never 
failed to bring in the man he went after. But what was 
he doing with the girl’s father—out here? Oh, yes— 
that dog again! The girl had come after her dog— 
what had urged him to go with that posse, anyhow, 
and so miss her—how had she trailed the dog, any- 


SONNY 


213 


Kow? The questions catapulted through his twisted 
brain as he cautiously raised himself to peer across 
the sill to see if he were observed. Just let him 
get his hands on that dog! Just once! And the girl, 
too, for that matter! She was responsible for this 
thing. And he had thought himself so safe! 

Men were dashing by the window, shouting, hurry¬ 
ing. Dan’s grin was twisted as his brain as it 
occurred to him how eager these men were. But a 
few hours before they had declared themselves too 
exhausted to search further for Dave Deering. Now 
they rushed to answer the call of the man from New 
York who came with his money bags open for them 
to dip their hands into. Dan knew how seldom it was 
that Ten Milers had an opportunity such as this. He 
gave no thought to the thing that had made 
of so many of them the plodding idlers they were; 
the desperate struggle to wrest wealth from the earth, 
the struggle that had in the end beaten them. Nor did 
he give thought to the fact that, deep in the hearts 
of these simple men, there was still the spark of the 
chivalry of their youth of which each had once 
boasted, and that the picture of a helpless girl alone 
on the desert had fanned it into life and made each 
;eager for the quest as no promise of gold would have 
done. Dan, the brakeman, was not capable of any 
such reasoning. 

He waited while the men outside ran by and 
mounted their ponies. He heard them moving up 
to the central part of the town, intent on forming the 
posse Jonathan Grayson had demanded. His eye 
went toward the open door. The men on the platform, 
with only the station master for company, were still 
talking. They must not come in where he was. Cau- 


214 


SONNY 


tiously, stealthily as a cat, with the care that his train¬ 
ing in depredations had taught him, he sidled, with 
back to the wall, hand on pistol grip, toward the 
door. As cautiously he closed it, and drew up before 
it the station master’s heavy chair. Then he breathed 
a sigh of relief. Dan did not want to fight. Least 
of all did he want to fight Mark Salter. What he 
wanted was to get away—away across the desert to 
the foothills where he knew a place he could “hole 
in,” indefinitely, if need be; at least until this all had 
blown over and Ten Mile had forgotten a girl and 
a dog. Besides, there were other places than Ten 
Mile. He heard the big man outside asking a ques¬ 
tion. 

“Didn’t have time to ask how my daughter Paula 
took the notion to hike out for the desert,” was what 
he was saying to the crippled man. “What made her 
think her dog was out there?” 

The other snickered in the inane way he had before 
he ever answered a question. To hear him at first, 
one would have been sure that this desert derelict 
never took anything seriously, but Jonathan Gray¬ 
son, reader of men, knew at a glance what many of 
the man’s daily companions did not, that a nervous 
affection he would have died rather than confess to his 
hardened daily associates, was responsible. 

“Wal,” began the derelict, as he spat out of the 
corner of his mouth at an inquisitive swift that 
crawled from under a clump of sage brush, “it was 
like this. This here lady she comes along in the 
aut’mobile with a jasper from up Hard Pan w T ay and 
she asks has anybody seen a strange dawg. I tells her 
they ain’t been no strange dawg out thisaway sense 
Deerin’ found that man-killin’ mutt ’longside the rail- 


SONNY 


215 


road and patched him up and taught him to chaw 
folks up—and wal, she asks what the dawg looks 
like, and while I’m tellin’ her whut a ornery purp he 
is an’ nuthin’ fer a lady tuh look at, why, she jes’ 
hollers suthin’ ’bout that bein’ her ‘Pet’ an’ when this 
here Hard Pan jasper an’ me’s in the station havin’ 
a leetle drink, after he’s tole her he won’t take her 
to no desert, why we looks out the winder, an’ there 
she goes, hell bent fer election with Bill’s car, 
an’-” 

Even in his distress, Jonathan Grayson could not 
restrain a grin of pride and recognition. 

“That would be Paula,” he nodded. But there was 
something still in his mind. He, too, knew Paula 
would not take such chances without reason. He 
wanted to know more about the outlaw’s dog, the dog 
he had already heard mentioned with fear and 
loathing by the strong men of the West with whom 
he had had but a few moments’ conversation. 

“This dog, now,” he asked. “When did this out¬ 
law chap get him—how?” 

“Oh, a time ago—heered as how he found him 
’longside the railroad track, so beat up from bein’ 
chucked overboard he couldn’t wobble. But I’m 
here to tell yuh it didn’t last long—not with Dave’s 
nursin’. Why, that there mutt jest naturally knocked 
out our sheriff and opened the cell door for Dave, t’ 
say nuthin’ o’ chawin’ up one of our leadin’ 
citizens-” 

He paused to let the information sink in. 
Jonathan Grayson’s eyes showed his thoughts were 
not on what the man was saying. 

“Poor little Sonny!” was w T hat he whispered, and 
the station master looked up at him and nodded. 




216 


SONNY 


“Yessir,” he agreed. “What was what he called 
him, the man that did for old Tuttle—Sonny.” 

Into Jonathan Grayson’s keen eyes, as they 
searched for the return of the men who were sweep¬ 
ing the town, there came a softened expression for a 
moment. In spite of his worry, anxiety, there flashed 
across his memory, unbidden, the picture of the dog 
he had himself called “Sonny”; of his daughter’s pet 
he had so surreptitiously named. There was a flash 
of interest as he commented. 

“This outlaw of yours, now,” he queried, “he 
must be a man of some brains, eh?” 

The station master spat once more and the action 
expressed his disgust. 

“Hell, no!” was his answer. “Didn’t he let his- 
self get robbed ’fore he started robbin’ hisself ?” 

The men were coming back. Dan could hear the 
clatter of ponies’ hoofs far up in the dust of the alkali 
streets. It was now or never. His hand still on his 
gun handle, he crept to the window sill. For the 
moment all was clear. The men on the platform were 
still talking. With a sudden leap he cleared the 
window opening and dropped cat-like to the ground 
beneath it. In as short a time he had reached his 
pony; leaped into the saddle; wielded the quirt that 
brought a snort of pain from the small horse and 
shot him ahead. He must gain the road toward the 
desert—gain it before Mark Salter had had a chance 
to question the men of Ten Mile. He counted on 
the excitement of the hunt for Grayson’s daughter 
to make himself forgotten for long enough to reach 
the desert’s edge. Once there, he knew he must skirt; 
must take his chances of water. But there were far 


I 


SONNY 217 

greater chances to be taken by remaining behind in 
Ten Mile. 

Men were riding hard and shouting at him as he 
galloped through the town’s main street. He only 
urged his pony to greater speed. Then it came to 
him that the shouts were friendly ones—that they 
were urging him to join them in the new search. He 
waved his hand to Sheriff Pearson as he passed him. 

“Be with you in a minute!” he called, and his pony 
shot ahead, out toward the white of the desert where 
the sun’s rays were already sending lengthening 
shadows with the promise of the hurried twilight 
and the dark that followed it so fast. 

Jonathan Grayson was just being helped to his 
horse while the men of Ten Mile waited, anxious to 
start, when a black figure emerged onto the flat white 
sands, past the last of the sage brush. The trail was 
plain. But the figure turned his pony’s head and 
started off toward the south, his eye alertly on the 
single star that showed as the earliest beacon for him 
who knew the meaning. Dan had gone away from 
Ten Mile; gone for good; gone while the going was 
good. 

The forty-eight hours that had passed since that 
hurried exit had been replete with such emotions as 
might best be expected to motivate a nature such as 
Dan the brakeman’s. First had been his accidental, 
exultant meeting with Paula Grayson in the desert 
and the resultant revenge he believed he had wrought 
on the dog who had been the cause of his undoing; 
the capture of the girl, who, in spite of her having 
had such a hand in bringing down the wrath of the 
powers on his head had been so enticing that he had 
not been able to do away with her as had been his first 


218 


SONNY 


fire-blinded idea when he had scurried out of Ten 
Mile—always provided, of course, that he should be 
able to find her. And the evil spirits that had always 
guided his destiny had steered him straight to the 
spot in the desert where she lay helpless, waiting, 
hoping, she knew not which, for a help of which she 
had little hope; she and the dog he had sworn would 
feel the deepest wrath of his vengeance. Now, he 
believed, only he knew how devastating that ven¬ 
geance could be, and he smiled his wry, hateful smile 
as his car wound its way through the desert lanes, 
far away from the beaten trail he believed would be 
taken by the girl’s father and the men coming to 
rescue her. In more ways than one Paula Grayson 
and her car had been a godsend to the man who had 
hit the trail into the desert, knowing he must take the 
untrodden ways; knowing he must depend only on his 
wits in eluding pursuers and finding the life-giving 
water holes. Then he had come upon her. There 
was water in her car; plenty of it. And the two he 
had most come to hate, woman and dog, had be'ert 
at his mercy. The sensualism that showed so plainly 
in the man’s physiognomy had alone been responsible 
for the fact that now, a scant forty-eight hours later, 
the body of a slender woman as well as that of a dog 
were not waiting demolishment by the vultures that 
;ever hover above the desert places. The glint of sun 
on a woman’s gold-bronze hair; the specks of sun¬ 
light that blazed through the wrath in the brown of 
her eyes. 

Hours of burning, blasting, heat-torturing way¬ 
making across the uncharted sands of the desert, 
sometimes with only the instinct of the hunted to 
guide him! Time and again he turned to curse the 



SONNY 


219 


inanimate bundle in the seat behind him. Once or 
twice, he stopped the car long enough to wet the 
parched lips of the woman who lay there, the caked 
blood from the wound he had given so startling 
against the paleness of her brow. Wet the lips, when 
his voracious-minded sensualism shouted to him the 
perfection of the patrician features beneath the caked 
and streaked dust of the desert. 

“Brought yuh too far tuh let yuh die on me now,” 
he said, gruffly, as his dirty paw brushed the life- 
giving moisture across her browned lips. “Yuh an’ 
me’ll be gittin’ along fine, though, kid, when yuh 
find whut a life preserver I’ve been.” He grinned 
again, as he took the wheel and shot the car ahead 
toward the hint of green in the distance that 
promised the foothills toward which he fared. His 
shoulders shrugged uneasily. It was a long time 
before he could make out what it was that was 
troubling him. So used had he become to the feel of the 
holster under his arm, the ready gun that lay within it, 
that it took his heat-befuddled mind an hour to dis¬ 
cover that the chafing might be eased by its removal. 
He laughed contemptuously as he flung off his coat, 
lifted the harness-like contraption over his head and 
flung it with its revolver into the seat beside him. 

“Oughta done that long ago,” he muttered huskily. 
“No need for yuh, old timer, with on’y the desert and 
a sleepin’ female tuh use yuh on.” 

Dan was not gifted with eyes in the back of his 
head, or he would have seen the half smile that 
flickered for a moment, then was gone, on the face 
of the “sleepin’ female” who occupied the rear seat 
of the desert car. His whole attention was on the 
unbroken road of sand hills ahead, and the green of 


220 


SONNY 


foothills that loomed ;ever and ever nearer. They 
had reached what seemed like a reasonable walking 
distance from the goal when there was a coughing 
sputter and the staunch little car that had carried 
them so many miles came to a shimmying pause. 

“Hell!” growled Dan as he leaped from his seat 
to the sand into which his feet sank a good half boot- 
length. He dragged one of them up to kick at the; 
engine. 

“What in the name of-” the string of oaths 

that followed seemed even to stir the ambient air, 
“—what’s ailin’ yuh, now?” He puffed his way to 
the front of the car, totally unheeding the stirring of 
a figure in the rear seat of the car. 

“Water! Water!” moaned Paula Grayson, and 
her slight figure half lifted itself to drop back in the 
seat with a sigh. Dan grinned spitefully through the 
tightened muscles of his own dust-caked, sweat-baked 
face 

“Water!” he exploded. “Water! Hell! Yuh, 
too! An’ this damn en-jine yellin’ fer it like all 
possessed. None nearer than th’ foothills, either. Ef 
yuh could be beat enough tuh wake up, I reckon I’d 
send yuh kikin’ after some, but I reckon I’ll have tuh 
go myself. Water, eh? Lay down, there!” The 
last words were exploded as the man saw the first 
faint stirrings of Paula Grayson. His head bent to 
unscrew the cap of the radiator. A jet of steam shot 
into his face, all but blinding him. He jerked back, 
wiping it out of his eyes to find himself looking 
straight into the barrel of his own revolver, held in 
the steady hands of the “sleepin’ female,” awake, 
alert as an animal of the desert herself, as she watched 
every move of the human animal who had menaced 



SONNY 


221 


her and had brought out every primal instinct of self- 
preservation. 

“Put your hands up !” she ordered, and in the tones 
of that voice, tones inherited from a power-loving 
parent, used, perhaps, for the first time in her life, 
Dan recognized the conqueror. “And keep them 
there!” she ordered. The painfully raised hands of 
the man who had kept those same hands on the 
steering wheel of a machine through long aching 
hours, sought to obey her command. He kept them 
there. There seemed to be nothing else he could 
do—Dan, the brakeman, used these many years to 
obeying the commands of those in authority, no 
matter how distasteful they might be. 

“Well?” he finally managed to drawl, when the 
strain seemed tearing his tortured arms from their 
sockets. “What’s the answer? Whut d’yuh think 
yuh’re goin’ tuh do—out here in the (desert, 
withou-” 

“It’s not a question of what Pm going to do!” came 
in the crisp firm accents of the girl who had been 
conserving her strength for hours in the hope of just 
some such chance, “it’s a question of you, and what 
you’re going to do—and that is— march! And do it 
now!” There was no mistaking the intention of 
the determined woman, she who had become woman 
from girl in the scant hours that lay behind her. She 
meant what she said. Dan, the brakeman, knew it. 
He shuffled uneasily, and there was a movement as 
though his hands would come 'down. The gun was 
leveled more menacingly. 

“Up, I said I” she commanded. “I mean it! Don’t 
think I can’t use this thing as well as you can yourself 
—or that I won’t!” she menaced. The tired hands 



222 


SONNY 


went far above the unshaven face again. But the 
man’s voice was a sneer. 

“Mebby yuh think it’s your time now,” he drawled, 
“but it’ll be mine again, and then-” 

“It’s your time, now— now, do you understand!” 
The girl’s voice, instead of rising hysterically held a 
cold note of doom. “There’s no need for me to use 
this, save to drive you away. Mad dog!” she ended 
contemptuously. “What have you done with my 
Hog?” 

The man’s shoulders tried to shrug beneath the up¬ 
held arms. 

“Feedin’ the buzzards by now, most likely,” he 
answered, and his face tried to hold the note of 
;elation that his voice failed of having. “I’ve 
done for that mangy cur, anyway—he’ll not be 
chawin’-” 

The girl’s voice rang out half hysterically, thelaught 
[echoing far into the nearby foothills. 

“Done for him, have you?” she exulted. “Done 
for him! But not before he’s done for you! He 
got his licks in first! Why, that dog was mad, didn’t 
you know it!” she half screamed. “Mad, I tell you! 
That was why I had him tied! He was worth nine 
hundred dollars, and I thought that if I got him to a 

specialist perhaps I might-” Her laughter again 

rang out hysterically at the terror that overspread 
the countenance of the brute who stood with upheld 
hands. He seemed about to collapse. His hands 
lowered to his shoulders. In an instant the girl was 
alert, the gun pointed steadily. 

“Up, I told you!” she cried. “Up!” 

The hands were painfully lifted skyward. TKe 
girl herself laughed sneeringly. 





SONNY 


223 


“Done for him, have you!” she repeated. “Well, 
I’ll finish it for him. He bit and clawed you, didn’t 
he? Do you know what you’re in for, out here just 
near enough the foothills for aid if you could get that 
far, but you can’t! Can't! No human alive, with the 
wounds you have from a mad dog could live that long 1 
And do I look as though I would help you!” Again 
her laughter rang hollowly. “I’ve told you what you 
could do! Now do it! March! And don’t you put 
your hands down either—I’ll be watching a long, long 
time—I can see you a long, long time as you go back 
over the way we’ve come. Maybe you can make 
it back again—after I’m gone—but hydrophobia 
doesn’t work that way! You heard me?” she asked 
again sharply, as the man seemed to hesitate, to 
wonder if by one desperate effort he might overcome 
this new, unexpected foe. But the look in the girl’s 
;eyes dissuaded him. Abruptly he turned from the 
iengine and faced about toward the desert, his arms 
still held high, in his black heart a fear that he had 
never known. What if it were true—what the girl 
had told him? And, as he remembered her eyes that 
bored into him as she had taunted him, his soul (if 
such as Dan had a soul) jeered at him that it was 
true. Already he seemed to feel the first symptoms 
of the thing for which there was no cure for him. 
Not in all the days since it had happened had the 
bites that the dog had left on his wrist burned and 
stung and writhed like red hot metal serpents as they 
did now. Only the man’s own lack of imagination 
prevented his going mad as his heavy feet wended 
their way back into the desert. 

Long after his figure was but a speck on the 
white sands in the distance, the girl stood erect in 


224 


SONNY 


the car, her hand held firmly on the gun that had been 
her salvation. As he disappeared over the wide 
horizon, a sigh came from the deepest depths of her 
being. The hand finally dropped. The gun clattered 
to the car floor. She sunk into the cushions of the 
car. 

“Buzzard’s meat!” she scorned, and her whole 
being exulted in her first use of the epithet she had 
come to know was the most scornful to which any 
Western man could lay his tongue in reviling. 

For a long time she sat there, watching the horizon, 
alert for any signs of her enemy’s return. Situated 
as she was, with the wide sands on either side of her, 
the foothills beyond, she knew that it would be im¬ 
possible for any approach without her knowing it. 
But a season of rest after her grilling experience she! 
must have. Her eyes sought the green of the foot¬ 
hills. What would she find there ? She did not know, 
but she did know that anything was better than stay¬ 
ing where she was. The afternoon was passing. She! 
must reach the foothills. Trees she at least knew. 
The sands were strangers. At length she rose: 
and her hand lifted a second cushion beneath that on 
which she sat. She drew out a fat bag. Its contents 
sloshed with a comforting sound. 

“Good thing he didn’t know about this,” she said 
to herself with a wise nod, then her mood grew 
different. There was a hint of the homesick child in' 
the sob that choked her throat. 

“Oh, dad, dad!” she prayed. “Why don’t you 
come? Why don’t you hurry? Did I do right, dad 
•—did I—back there where he stopped to cook for 
himself—when I let the water out of the radiator. It 


SONNY 


225 


was taking a chance, dad, wasn’t it—but oh, I 
thought you’d come!” 

For just a moment did the girl, clasping the water 
bag as she climbed out of the desert car, allow herself 
the luxury of sobs. Then all the primitive once more 
asserted itself, and it was with firm chin and de¬ 
termined eyes that she filled the radiator, climbed into 
the seat so lately occupied by Dan the brakeman, and 
set her small foot on the starter. The staunch little 
car responded, and shot ahead. Paula Grayson had 
no need of a star to guide her. Both eyes were set 
firmly on the green of the foothills ahead. Firm was 
her determination to reach them and cope with what¬ 
ever they might have to offer. There could be noth¬ 
ing worse than that sand waste. 


CHAPTER XV 


T HAT ride with his new found master, the 
master who had come to him when all the 
earth was a flame and all the world a reeling 
hatred—that ride after Dave Deering had found 
Sonny tied under the rawhide tetherings that had held 
him as iron bands, to frizzle beneath the merciless 
rays of the desert sun—was the longest the dog had 
ever known. Sometimes the jolting and the pounding 
of the hoofs under him made the whole world spin 
around and become black. But when light came, he 
found that the horse was still and that Dave was 
cradling him in his arms and talking low, soothing 
[encouragements. Then they would go on again, each 
time after the dog had been given a deep swallow of 
water from the big canteen that hung at the saddle 
pommel. 

Toward the edge of the desert the going was 
rougher, and the tracks of the car they had started 
off to follow showed its crooked, snail-like progress. 
Dan, who both Dave and the dog knew had been 
driving it, had, for good reason of his own, steered 
away from the beaten path, and even the sturdy 
desert automobile had had plenty of trouble. 

At last the dead gray of the sage showed green in 
spots. A little more, and they were traveling upward 
toward the trees of the lower slopes. 

“That jasper won’t be expectin’ a trailer, boy,” 
Dave said grimly. “An’ that autermobile won’t be 

226 



SONNY 


227 


goin’ much further up this rough foothill way. 
Killin’ that hawss made the first part easier, but 
maybe by now he’ll be wishin’ he had it.” 

The man pulled his pony up sharply and stared 
down at the ground. 

“Somebuddy went back!” he muttered. “There’s 
a man’s tracks! The fool! He’s goin’ back to the 
desert!” 

For a second he tried to puzzle the thing out. 
Having gained the foothills, or nearly, why should 
Dan be starting back to the desert, on foot at that? 

“What do yuh reckin it is, Sonny?” he asked 
gravely. 

The dog just snuggled deeper in the strong arms. 
He didn’t know nor care. 

“Better go on a bit an’ see what’s what,” decided 
the man. 

The pony resumed his gingerly picking of the trail 
until they began to climb the foothills over which a 
car had bumped but a short time previously, as the 
scattered earth and dislodged rocks proclaimed. A 
scant fifteen minutes of the rambling climb, and the 
pony, nostrils distended, quivering, stopped of his 
own accord. Dave Deering’s eyes sought the ground. 

“Here’s where it turned,” he murmured. “Lookin’ 
fer a shelter behind that shelf of rocks and trees, 
likely. Hello!” His lips pursed into a whistle. 
“Footprints, too!” he ejaculated in wonderment. “A 
woman’s! Hers! She didn’t go on in the car! She 
went that a-way!” 

Dave’s horse jumped under the sudden spur jab, 
and went crashing through the bush. 

“Stop!” A girl’s voice sounded ahead of them, 
shrill and tense. “I’ll shoot!” 


228 


SONNY 


Sonny lurched dangerously near to falling as the 
pulled-up horse went back on its haunches. 

“Yes’ m,” drawled Dave in slow obedience. “Any¬ 
thing yuh say.” 

“Oh!” The dog heard the voice say: “O-oh!” 
just like that. 

Then a fall. Dave leaped from the saddle and 
dropped him gently to the ground. Then he ran 
ahead through the bushes. The dog staggered to his 
feet, and stood shakily for an instant. But an instant 
later he was at the master’s heels. He saw Dave 
bending over the girl, who lay still. He watched the 
big man run back to the horse and get the canteen. 
Dave sprinkled some water on her face. 

The dog’s tongue touched her arm. He knew 
Dave wanted the girl to speak, and he was trying to 
help. She opened her eyes flutteringly, and a moan 
sounded before the slight tremor made her body 
quiver. Then her eyes stayed open. 

“Thank God!” she whispered. It was beginning 
to seem to the dog one of her favorite expressions. 

Dave’s arm slid under her, holding her up so that 
the mouth of the canteen was against her lips. His 
voice drawled out soft encouragements, just as it had 
to the hurt dog. 

Sonny wondered a bit at that. He had never 
heard the big man speak in that way to anyone but 
him. Certainly there had been none of that tone 
when the girl had been with him before. But now 
she was hurt. That was it. The big man was always 
good to people and dogs that were hurt. 

“He’s—gone?” she moaned questioningly. 

Dave nodded. “Guess so,” he answered grimly. 


SONNY 


229 


“His tracks are leadin’ straight out fer the first water 
hole.” 

“Oh!” she shuddered. For the first time she 
seemed to know that his arm was holding her. She 
straightened up. Sonny walked around so that he 
could see her. Not because he particularly wanted to, 
but because Dave desired him, apparently, to be 
nice to her. He saw her looking at the big man with 
eyes that held the same kinci of light that he knew w T as 
in his own eyes when he looked at Dave. “Thank 
you,” he heard her murmur, and her voice, too, was 
very different than it had been. It sounded as the 
voice he dimly remembered as being part of the puppy 
days before he had known the master. 

“I brought your dog back to yuh, ma’am,” Dave 
said as he turned away. Sonny started to follow him, 
then stopped as the woman’s arm reached out for his 
neck. Dave wanted him to stay with her. Perhaps 
Dan was coming back again, and this time he was 
loose and able to protect her as Dave would like him 
to. 

“He—told me—he’d killed him.” The girl 
sobbed brokenly. 

“He tried.” Dave spoke without turning as he 
walked back toward the pony. “I was watchin’ for 
him. I thought maybe yuh was lost, an’ I came back 
to see. The desert’s a foolin’ place for strangers.” 

“You—came back?” She held the dog tight, but 
looked over his head at the man. 

“I reckon I was safer in the desert than any other 
place.” There was a tinge of bitterness in the voice 
of the master. 

He went back to his horse. Through the bushes 
Sonny saw him tie the thongs of the canteen to the 


230 


SONNY 


saddle. The arm around his neck withdrew. He 
leaped through the bushes. Behind him he heard the 
girl get to her feet. She followed. 

“Will you forgive me?” she said softly to Dave. 
“I was horrid. I don’t—care what you’ve done— 
you’re a man!” 

She held out her hand. Sonny’s tail wagged. She 
was going to pat Dave. She liked the master. He 
saw Dave put out his hand and take it, and they stood 
for a long time, just looking at each other. 

“Thanks,” Dave said. “Yuh were mighty lucky to 
get away from that jasper, Dan.” 

“I tricked him,” she said. “I was afraid to open 
my eyes and let him see that I was conscious. But 
I waited my chance and when he left the gun on the 
seat, why I—I—sort of ‘came to’ and held it over 
him while he was wondering what was the matter with 
the engine. I guess I just acted without thinking,” 
she apologized, the dimples chasing each other in 
her cheeks. “It wasn’t hard—really, and I was crazy 
with fear, but anyway—he seemed sort of frightened 
at the way I acted and what I said as he was at the 
gun-” 

“Yuh sure were plucky, ma’am !” Dave’s tone was 
the tone he had used many times when the dog had 
done something right. Sonny recognized it and rubbed 
against the leg of his master. 

A shaky laugh of relief issued from the girl’s lips. 
Sonny saw that she was looking at him. He saw, too, 
that her hand was still in the hand of the big man. 
But Dave paid no attention to him. He was only 
looking at the girl. Dave didn’t know he was there! 

“As he went away he snarled something about 
fixing me some day like he’d fixed Pet,” she said. “I 



SONNY 


231 


screamed at him that the dog was mad, and he’d die 
a horrible death from the bite. He was terribly 
scared.” 

“Great!” The big laugh of Dave boomed out. 
Sonny yelped joyously. It had been a long time since 
he had heard that laugh. Dave was happy once more. 
They were in the hills again. Everything was all 
right—but why didn’t Dave look at him or pat him 
as he always had before when the great throat sound 
of pleasure had sounded over the silent hills. 

He saw the girl pull away the hand. Her face 
changed its color in a strange way, and she stared 
down at him. But by her eyes he knew that she did 
not even see him. 

“I’ll have to get to Ten Mile,” she stammered. 

The big man shook his head. “It’s near dark,” 
he told her slowly. “Ten Mile’s thirty-five miles 
south. Yuh couldn’t make it alone, an’ there’s on’y 
one horse.” He turned his head sharply and gazed 
down at the dog. Sonny leaped up to meet the hand 
that lowered to caress him. “I guess maybe Sonny 
could lead yuh,” he said slowly. “He kin do ’most 
anything—if he will,” he finished lamely. 

The girl, too, stared down at the dog. Her hand 
touched his back, then drew away. 

“You told me out there in the desert that he was 
a man-dog,” she said softly, and Sonny thought there 
was something wrong with her, because her voice was 
so sad. “And when you left us he fought for you 
every minute. He’s forgotten me. He’s mine no 
longer. A man-dog is for a man. Tie is yours.” 

There came a queer catch in her voice, and the 
dog looked over the man’s hand that had covered his 
eyes to see that she was facing the other way. Her 


232 


SONNY 


shoulders were moving in a funny manner. Then 
Dave straightened up. 

“That’s white, awful white!’’ he said slowly. “But 
I guess I couldn’t take a nine-hundred-dollar dog like 
that—I couldn’t pay yuh for him.” 

Sonny saw her turn back, and there was a smile on 
her lips. “There are other nine hundred dollars,” 
she whispered. “Many of them. If they can buy a 
dog like that, they are worth something, after all. 
He was my Pet, and I loved him. But he’s your 
Sonny, every muscle and hair and thought in his wise 
head. I couldn’t ever have a place in his heart. I 

won’t try to- Don’t you think I could get back 

alone?” 

It was a long while before Dave answered, and the 
dog was glad, because the hand of the man that was 
so strong underneath the softness was stroking him 
tenderly. 

“There’s a shack about five miles up,” the master 
said finally. “It was Jimmy Hanley’s. I reckon he’s 
traipsin’ the hills now, but there’s always bacon an r 
stuff cached. If”—the words seemed to come hard— 
“yuh kin stand havin’ a outlaw an’ a murderer sleepin’ 
outside for a night, we kin start off early in the 
mornin’ an’ make it.” 

“Fine!” she cried, and for some strange reason 
her next words also seemed to be hard to say: “When 
■—that—man—thought I was unconscious he mut¬ 
tered some things that made me know you weren’t—• 
a murderer.” 

“We go right up this way,” Dave said. 

They started up the trail silently, the man and the 
woman. 

The dog forgot everything in the world but the 





SONNY 


233 


happiness of going back to the world that was green 
and sweet and wonderful. He forgot the hurts, the 
weariness, and the splotch of dried, caked blood on 
the raw neck. He and Dave were going back into 
the world! 

Of course the girl was there. But Dave seemed 
to like her. And if the master approved, it was all 
right. The big man liked the dog and the girl. He 
was big enough to like both of them, and it was very 
lucky he was so big. Sonny would have to show 
the lady that the man’s approval was all that was 
necessary. 

So, every little while, he ran at the girl’s side and 
allowed her to reach down and touch him. Then he 
was back at the man’s heels, running in and out 
between the moving legs of the pony as he had 
learned to do with Pete. 

They came to the shack when the sun was low over 
the hills. Paula sank on a mossy log, while Dave 
opened the door and rummaged around. Sonny 
helped. He poked his nose into this and that, yelp¬ 
ing his discoveries in the language that the master 
seemed to understand so well. Beside the cabin was 
a running stream that gurgled coolly as the one had 
before Dave’s house that the men had burned. 

Then the beautiful odor of frying bacon! Supper! 
Sonny sat and watched the man and woman eat. It 
seemed to take them a terribly long time. Dave had 
always finished his meal so quickly before. Now he 
seemed more pleased to talk with the girl than to eat. 
He talked to her even more than he ever had to the 
dog. And she talked a lot, too. 

The shadows lengthened and dark came down. 
Dave rolled a blanket on the soft grass. The girl 


234 


SONNY 


bade him good night from the door. Once she stared 
very hard at the dog, who had curled himself at 
Dave’s feet. But she went inside without a word, 
and the door closed behind her. 

Always before Dave had laid down when the 
blanket was unrolled. Now, queerly enough, he sat 
on the edge of it and held his knees in his hands while 
he watched that closed door of the cabin. Time after 
time the dog rubbed his nose insinuatingly against the 
clasped hands. Once or twice they were drawn apart 
to pat him mechanically. But many more times the 
man paid no attention. The dog went over and 
looked at the door. It was just a common door. 
Why should Dave look at it so steadily? The thing 
was very queer. 

The master laid down finally, and they slept. The 
caroling birds waked the dog, just as they always had 
done in the hills. He barked to wake the master, 
and Dave ordered him to be quiet. The master had 
never done that before. There had always come the 
twist of the mouth that meant the noises of pleasure 
that rumbled from the man’s chest in the days past. 
Sonny slunk into the bushes, and could not understand. 

At last the girl opened the door. Dave was his 
old self again. He romped with the dog, and Sonny 
allowed the girl to join in the romps, too. Break¬ 
fast came, and it was the longest breakfast Sonny 
could remember. There w T asn’t so much talk this 
morning. Instead, there were long silences, during 
which neither would pay any attention to him. 

When the things had all been put the way they had 
found them the three started down the mountain. 
The man and girl walked close together, instead of 
several feet apart, as they had the afternoon before. 


SONNY 


235 


The pats he got did not feel the same. Some warmth 
of touch or caressing gesture was missing. They only 
brushed their hands across his back at long intervals, 
and they seemed to be thinking of something else. 

They came to a wind in the trail that skirted a 
bluff. The man and the girl stopped. Sonny stopped, 
too. From there they could look far out over the 
desert. 

“See!” cried the girl suddenly. “There are men ! n 

“They’ve been trailin’ yuh all night,” said Dave. 
“Yuh said yuh’d heard that Dan jasper say your dad 
had hit Ten Mile, and I’ll say for him he’s a hustler. 
He ain’t lost no time—an’ it looks tuh me from where 
I stand he’s got most o’ Ten Mile with him, from the 
sheriff down.” His smile was dryly enigmatical as 
he went on. He spoke almost sadly. “I reckon I’ll 
leave yuh here. They’ll come right up and hit this 
place in about two hours. 'It ain’t very healthy for 
me. Thanks for the dawg—aw« I can’t say anything 
to tell yuh how I feel about that/’ 

The dog saw her suddenly grip the big man’s arm 
and hold him. 

“Don’t go!” she pleaded. “I know you didn’t do 
it. You’re too fine and big to have had anything to 
do with robbery and murder. And—that man—said 
some things. I can straighten it out. I know I can P 
She looked out over the desert, and raised her arm. 
“See!” she cried again. “The man leading them. It 
is my father! Oh, dad, I knew you’d find me! I 
knew it! Oh! They’ll go a long way to beat old 
Jonathan Grayson!” 

Sonny jumped aside agilely to escape the man’s feet 
as he whirled around roughly. 



236 


SONNY 


“Grayson?” Dave’s voice was sharp and metallic. 
“That white-haired thief!” 

The girl drew back, and the dog saw that she was 
frightened. 

“It’s—father,” she stammered. “He has mining 
interests near here. But I know that isn’t why he’s 
here. My—my aunt I told you about must have 
told him Td run away from her to find—er—Sonny 
and he was afraid for me and has come-” 

“Grayson?” Dave’s voice was sharp and metallic, 
that the dog knew, he had never heard this one 
before. It was terrible. Like a burning hurt. “The 
man that took my mine with his stock-thief ways! 
The coyote that sent me out to start all over. An’ 
I —I made, a pal of the. dawg his thief money 
bought!” 

The girl shrank back from him. The dog 
whimpered and slunk away. The man’s hand pulled 
his pistol from the holster. It swung into the air. 
Three times the shots rang out. He waited. Down 
the desert came puffs of smoke, then the far-carried 
sounds of the pistols. The men spurred their horses 
to a run. Hats waved. 

“They’ll be here soon!” Dave’s voice jerked out 
the words. He pulled at the reins of the horse to 
turn it. Sonny crawled after him, fearing the thing 
that was in the voice of the master. And Dave 
Deering looked down at him and flung out his hand 
in a command. 

“Get back! Stay there! I wouldn’t even have a 
dawg that houn’s money paid for. Nine hundred 
dollars!” he sneered. “An’ there’s lots more—from 
poor fools like me. Stay there where yuh belong, 
Pet!” 




SONNY 


237 


He jumped to the horse. The dog cowered under 
the whipping words that bit deeper than had the chain 
or the boot or the rawhide thongs of Dan, the brake- 
man. The look on the man’s face, the move of the 
hand, the tone that was so different and strange told 
the animal that there would never be a recalling of 
this command. The master was going, and he could 
not follow. He dare not! 

The pony jumped back to the trail and away. 
Crouching on a bare rock, the dog watched, and the 
hurt in his eyes dimmed them to everything else. 
All the world was black. In it there was nothing but 
hurt, hurt! 

Far down the winding trail sounded the shouts of 
the riding men. The horses’ hoofs crashed through 
the fringing bushes and sent stones and gravel flying. 

The oncoming men were near. A whine came from 
between the dog’s lips, and it was a whine of loneli¬ 
ness and helplessness and pain. It was the first sound 
he had uttered since those terrible words of the man 
who had cast aside the dog who worshiped him. The 
whipping lash of the master’s words had driven all 
the strength and hope from the heart of the animal. 
Always before he had followed blindly through the 
mountains and desert; through the terrible hours of 
thirst and torture and darkness because there was 
always the hope of the big man at the end. But now 
Dave had told him he was an outcast, a pariah of the 
world because he belonged to the daughter of a thief 
and that a thief’s money had paid for him. 

The dog understood none of this. Therefore, it 
was all hideous and unreal. He only knew that the 
master had forbidden him to follow. Fie only re¬ 
membered the awful look that had been on the big 


238 


SONNY 


man’s face when he had cursed the dog he had loved. 
He only realized that the tone of Dave Deering had 
taken everything from the world. He was alone. 
The master was riding away. And Sonny dared not 
follow! 

The whine trailed off to a whimper. With his 
forelegs the dog drew himself forward on his belly 
toward the undergrowth that the horse’s body had 
torn aside. His ears were strained for one small 
sound that would be the signal for his muscles to tense 
and send him leaping after the master. But there 
were only the loud noises of the men on the up trail, 
and the lesser noises of the birds in the trees. 

Still pulling himself along, the dog reached the 
edge of the rock by the grass. He did not rise, for 
some great weight seemed to crush him to earth, and 
there he would stay till the master relieved the 
horrible, smashing thing that held him down. 
Listening, always listening, he went fonvard an inch 
at a time. The brown twigs and the sharp stones 
cut into him, but he did not know it. There was only 
the greater cut that the master had left in his heart. 

Behind him he heard a sob. He knew it was a 
sob because he had heard it before when the girl was 
near. It was her signal of hurt. It made him 
realize the thing that he had not realized for the long 
minutes of a half hour. He was not alone. And he 
wanted to be alone. It was wrong that any other 
human should be in the world that belonged to Dave. 

He heard her come behind him, and he tried to 
hurry faster. Then she sat beside him, her soft arm 
went around his neck, and her sobs were loud in his 
;ears. 

“Oh, Sonny! Sonny!” she cried. 


SONNY 


239 


She did not use the name she had given him in the 
far-away days of his puppyhood. She called to him 
with the name that the man had bestowed. 

The dog lay still. Not because the arm held him. 
There wasn’t strength enough in that small arm to 
leash the muscles that the days in the mountains had 
made tight things of steel. In the heart of the dog 
stirred a new emotion. Or, rather, it was a need that 
he had never known before—the need of sympathy. 

Always before there had been the instinct to bear 
hurt alone. Now it felt good to know that in the big, 
empty world was a soft arm that could press on a 
dog’s neck. And she, too, was hurt. The sobbing 
sounds in her throat told him of her pain. All the 
earth was pain, and the two things that were on it 
shared alike. He turned his head slowly and looked 
up into her eyes. There he saw the look he knew 
was in his own eyes; the look of hunger insatiable for 
the master who was gone. 

“Oh, Sonny! Sonny!” she repeated. 

The dog knew it was his name she called. Yet he 
knew that the voice was calling just what his voice 
called. It held the same note. Her human tone was 
crying out the same thing as his dog tone—the 
universal whimper of suffering. 

“The daughter of a thief!” she whimpered. “The 
thief who took his all and made him a wanderer!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


W ITH the spoken words drawn from the girl’s 
choking, sobbing throat a new chord was 
struck. She jumped to her feet, and stood 
with clenched hands, her whole body shaking as she 
looked down at the dog. 

“It isn’t true!” her words rang out. “It isn’t true! 
Dad wouldn’t steal his mine! He didn’t make Deer- 
ing an outlaw!” Her glance swept downward to the 
whimpering animal at her feet. “It wasn’t stolen 
money that bought you!” The hot denial came in a 
torrent, tense and crackling with the force behind the 
words. 

Sonny got to his feet. He, too, heard the noise of 
the coming men plainly. Though the girl was look¬ 
ing at him as she spoke, her words were strange to 
the dog, and he understood only the tone. It was 
anger, and that must be because the men were coming 
up the hill. 

He faced the opening of the trail through the 
bushes. His head was high and the wiry hairs of his 
neck bristled. The coming men were the cause of it 
all. They had taken Dave away from him first. 
They had locked the master in their barred cage they 
had called jail. They had followed to the desert— 
that terrible place where all was heat and thirst. 
The girl knew it! She was showing her anger at 
them. He jumped toward the trail opening, teeth 
wide, nostrils quivering. These men had sent Dave 

240 


SONNY 


241 


out of the world. Now he would send them after 
him! 

The girl realized what that attitude meant. She 
realized the danger the dog never even considered. 

“Lie down!” she cried in sudden, shrill fright. 

The breaking of the bushes was continuous. 
Around a bend came the first rider, a man in a white 
sombrero. The sheriff! 

“Deering!” he yelled, and his pony was flung back! 
on its haunches by the jerk of the bit. “Git round!' 
Here’s his murderin’ cur! Attackin’ the girl!” 

His pistol flashed in the sun, and fired as it 
straightened out at his hip. With the instant’s glint 
of sun on the gun’s long barrel the dog remembered 
the lesson that had been so impressed on his mind. 
His body leaped aside as though it were made of 
rubber and concealed springs. He felt a stinging 
whiz like an angry bee in flight. A jagged chip of 
rock scratched his side cruelly. The gun straightened 
again. Once more the dog leaped. 

Then came a whirlwind. A pair of arms flung 
themselves around him. He snarled at their hold. 
But where the softness had been before there was 
strength. Tight they held him—like steel clamps. 

“For God’s sake look out, lady!” The frightened 
voice of the sheriff boomed through the break in the 
bushes. “He’s a devil! I never missed anything at 
that distance before in my life. Jump so’s I kin plug 
him!” 

The dog fought with all his power to get away. 
But a new strength had come to the white amis that 1 
had always seemed so soft. They gripped him fast, 
and they were curiously like the great arms of the 
big man that had crushed him so lovingly. His paws 


242 


SONNY 


sought for a hold, and he heard them tearing the 
khaki trousers of the girl. Once his teeth tried to find 
a place in her arm to bite. 

The blind rage against the men who had been the 
cause of all his trouble and of Dave’s made him for¬ 
get everything but the desire to bite and kill. But as 
his head turned he saw her eyes for an instant. He 
heard her voice. 

“Sonny!” she panted. “Dave told you to lie down! 
Dave did!” Then he heard her scream out gasp¬ 
ingly: “Keep away! You shan’t kill him! Keep 
away!” The voice softened again: “Sonny! Dave 
said—lie down!” 

That magic name brought reason to the brain that 
silly men contend has no reason. The fighting 
muscles relaxed. For a second he felt the full force 
of the holding arms, and he realized how strong they 
were. Like Dave’s arms. And he had thought she 
was so soft and unlike what a master should be! 

He sank to the rock, and lay there, panting. His 
tongue was out. His teeth showed. The bright eyes 
held steadily the eyes of the man in the white 
sombrero, who stood with gaping jaw and waiting 
gun. The pistol raised slowly again. The growl 
that had been still came menacingly as the dog leaped 
up. 

“Put down that pistol or I’ll kill you!” The gasp¬ 
ing went from the voice of the girl. Sonny saw 
her jump in front of him. He saw that in her hand 
was one of the shiny things he knew was the teeth 
that humans used for their biting. He remembered 
now that she had carried that all through the journey 
of the morning. He had no reason to know it, but it 
was the pistol she had taken away from Dan, the 


SONNY 


243 


brakeman, before Dave and Sonny had found her. 
And strangely enough the dog was confident of her 
protection, just as he had been of the protection of 
the big man. He saw the sheriff’s pistol move slowly 
toward the leather thing at his hip. 

Then a line of fire spat from the bushes. Along 
the dog’s side a bolt of lightning seemed to sear its 
way. The burning sting of it brought him to his feet 
and sent from his teeth a bark of pain and rage. 
Then over him came the crashing of a revolver. In 
the undergrowth a screeching curse sounded. The 
fall of a body and the metallic clank of a dropped 
gun on the stones. 

“I’ll kill anybody that touches my dog!” screamed 
the girl. “You murderers!” 

“She’s killed Charlie!” yelled a voice. 

“Paula!” The dog, standing dizzily, jumped for¬ 
ward with bared teeth as a man with iron-gray hair 
pushed past the sheriff and ran toward them. The 
man stopped suddenly and drew back. 

A hysterical laugh sounded. Once more the white 
arms that still held the strange, new hardness swept 
down to encircle the dog’s body. Sonny felt the fingers 
touch the burned place, and he jumped. 

“Quiet!” she commanded. There was no plead¬ 
ing in that word. It was an order like the big man 
might have given if he hadn’t gone out of the w r orld. 
He stood still. The fingers brushed aside the hair, 
and the hurt was frightful—just as it had been when 
the rough fingers of the big man had touched him 
that day by the railroad tracks on the desert. 

“Paula !” The man with the iron-gray hair strode 

forward. 

Her hand, pressing tight on the dog’s side, held 


244 SONNY 

him flat to the rock when he wanted to leap up at this 

new enemy. 

She spoke without looking up, and the dog could 
feel the breath of her words on his muzzle as he 
turned to look up at her. 

“See what they’ve done!” she accused. “They’ve 
hurt our—my dog. Make them stop !” 

“Paula!” the man said again, senselessly, Sonny 
thought. “You shot somebody.” 

“Plumb through the shoulder,” said the sheriff 
solemnly. 

Sonny looked up over the small hand that lay on his 
head, and saw that two men stood beside the sheriff. 
One leaned heavily on the shoulder of the other, and 
the dog smelled the blood that was heavy in the air. 

“It’s only a scratch, boy,” she told him softly, and 
there was again that gently subdued likeness to the 
voice of the big man. “Another quarter of an inch 
and it would have been serious.” She looked up at 
the gray-haired man who stood beside her. “Let 
me have your handkerchief, Dad,” she ordered. 

The man handed it to her mechanically. His lips 
repeated the only word they seemed capable of say¬ 
ing. The sheriff turned from the man who had 
stripped off his coat and cursed in hoarse whispers 
while two other men bandaged his shoulder. 

“That there’s Dave Deering’s dawg, ma’am!” de¬ 
clared the sheriff. “Got a repertation’s long’s yer 
arm. He helped Deering murder the postmaster at 
Ten Mile an’ knocked me cold tuh let Deering get 
outta jail!” 

She looked up suddenly. “He did it to prevent 
a gang of drunken outlaws from lynching hir 


SONNY 


245 


master!” she scorned, and her eyes swept the crowd 
of men that were circled around them. 

“So yuh’ve seen him?” demanded the sheriff 
sharply. 

Sonny felt her fingers pressing the wadded hand¬ 
kerchief tight against his side. The hand that had 
held his head was withdrawn, and he saw the scowl¬ 
ing face of the men. He recognized them as faces 
that had been part of the blur in the barroom back 
in Ten Mile, when he had leaped at the wrist of 
Dan, the brakeman. All around him came mutter* 
ings of menace. • 

“It was Deering fired them shots!” yelled a man 
suddenly. “We fergot ’em! I seen a man!” 

“That’s right!” The muttered growls of a mo¬ 
ment before became accusing words. The men 
pressed nearer. 

Over him the dog saw the girl standing with 
head thrown back and hands clenched in defiance. 

“Have you seen Deering?” It was the gray¬ 
haired man who asked that question. The dull sur¬ 
prise and lack of comprehension that had marked the 
tone before was missing. His hand went out to the 
girl’s arm. 

She drew back, away from the dog, and into the 
circle of men who gave way before her. 

“Yes!” the girl cried. “I saw him and talked with 
him.” 

“Here’s the break he made in the bushes when he 
got away!” shouted a discoverer. “That damned 
dawg’s took all our attention.” 

Sonny scrambled to his feet as they closed around 
him. But the girl’s pistol drove them back. 


246 


SONNY 


“Don’t you dare touch him!” she warned between 
clenched jaws. 

They retreated another step. They were staring 
at the mute evidence of the broken twigs that told 
of Deering’s second escape. The dog was forgotten, 
or probably it was the girl’s gun and her flashing eyes 
that drove them away from Sonny and to the edge of 
the rock. 

“Why didn’t you hold him?” Again it was the 
gray-haired man who asked the question. 

The sheriff’s white sombrero was bobbing through 
the green of the undergrowth as he followed the 
trail at the head of his men. 

“He hasn’t any more money!” the girl said scorn¬ 
fully. “There was no use of holding him. His mine 
was stolen. He was forced back to the hills and 
prospecting. All he had was taken away from him!” 

Sonny found that his feet were very heavy as he 
lifted them to walk. No one paid any attention to 
him. The men were talking and shouting in the 
bushes. The girl was standing before the gray¬ 
haired man, who stared at her without speaking. 
The bum of the bullet that had cut into the flesh of 
the dog hurt frightfully. He knew that if he rubbed 
his back on the soft, cool grass it would help him. 
There were many green things that grew which would 
ease the pain, just as Dave’s liniment had. He made 
his way slowly to the edge of the great rock shelf. 
Near the opening of the trail that led downward he 
smelled the pungent odor of growing things he knew 
would ease his pain. How he knew, or why, men call 
instinct for want of a better name. 

Into the tangled grasses and shrubs he wormed his 
way. Over and over he rolled on the cool green of 


SONNY 


247 


ftvs "earth, and rubbed his back’ against it. Several 
leaves that he knew would help the dizziness and 
sickness he ate. He felt better. 

Then down the trail a horse’s whinny brought him 
to his feet. It was Pete’s voice! Pete, the pony that 
had been lost. He was crying out for Dave just as 
the dog had cried so many times before the big hurt 
had come. Sonny had not seen Pete since that day 
when Dave had ridden down the mountain. Now 
Pete was back. Calling to the master! 

Dave would want to hear that call. He loved 
Pete. He had missed the pony that had been his 
companion before the dog came into his life. Maybe 
he would be glad to see Pete again. And Pete would 
surely want to know that the master had been near. 
Pete loved Dave, too. 

Sonny scampered out of the bushes. The blood of 
the bullet scratch was mixed with the green grass, 
and the pain was less. Down the trail he ran. There 
were the horses, nibbling at the grass, held quiet by 
the long reins that dangled from thin bits. The 
dog’s voice sent up its joyous cry of camaraderie to 
the horse. Sonny jumped from the bushes. The first 
horse leaped back, and a whinny of fright sounded 
shrill. The smell of blood had come to its nostrils. 
Pete was in the center of the animals. Sonny ran 
toward him, barking glad greeting. 

Suddenly the dog stopped and jumped aside to 
escape the flying hoofs of a panic-stricken horse. 
Pete was turning with the others. He did not seem 
to know the dog. The whinnies of fright were sound¬ 
ing loud and shrill. The hoofs were sending the 
small stones of the trail clattering. Sonny barked his 
surprise at Pete’s actions. The horse was running 


248 


SONNY 


away. Just as Dave had run. All the horses were 
running down the trail. A shower of scattered 
stones. A turn in the trail. The dog was alone. 

The barking call died in his throat. Pete had left 
him! The horse, like its master, had deserted him. 
The hurt of it was second only to the hurt the man 
had made. Sonny and the pony had romped together 
for so many happy hours in the hills. Now the one 
animal friend in the world had gone as had the 
human. Sonny stood in the middle of the trail. He 
tried in vain to send forth another loud bark of 
friendship. Only a whimper came from his throat. 
The world was such an empty place! 

Behind him he heard the roar of maddened men. 

“That damn’ dawg!” howled one, cursing. “He’s 
stampeded the hawses. Kill him!” 

“Deering’s somewhere round!” shouted another. 
“We’ll git him if we have t’ crawl after him. But 
git that devil of a dawg!” 

The first law of nature made the dog forget every¬ 
thing else. He recognized that note of blood lust. 
Into the bushes he dove. Then silently, with some 
atavistic instinct of the wild that had slumbered for 
generations, he wove his way through the tangles of 
bush and grass. Not a twig was displacel by his 
padded feet. There was no swishing of bushes as 
his body avoided them by some separate brain of its 
own. Through a screen of leaves and branches that 
seemed impenetrable he squirmed and lay flat on the 
ground, while his bright eyes watched alertly for the 
first sign of discovery. 

Past his hiding-place the men ran. 

“He’s chasin’ ’em down the hill!” yelled one. 


SONNY 249 

“Don’t hear his barkin’ no more,” panted a 
second. 

# “He’s too wise!” That was the sheriff. “He 
ain’t no dawg! He’s a fiend! Why didn’t I kill him 
when I had th’ chancet?” 

Sonny heard them clatter down the trail. Far below 
was the fainter clatter of the horses as fear spurred 
them on. For minutes the dog lay and listened. 
Finally he made his way from the shelter into the 
deep woods that fringed the mountainside. He 
started up the hillside in a stiff-legged trot. 

Only one idea was in his mind. He wanted to get 
away. Away! With the hurt in his heart and the 
hurt of his body, he wanted to be alone. 

The side of the hill was steep. There were many 
sharp stones to bruise a dog’s paws, and pointed twigs 
that grasped at his sides with their thousand sharp- 
nailed fingers. The warm, sticky stuff that was wet¬ 
ting his sides again made the running feet like lead. 
He was terribly tired, and he knew that unless he 
rolled again in the healing green things he could go 
no farther. He needed rest, too. 

So once again he crawled into the undergrowth and 
found what he sought. A long time he rolled and 
rubbed his body in the cool carpet of the woods. He 
ate of roots that his paws dug. They made him 
drowsy, and his eyes closed. He wasn’t surprised at 
this, for something seemed to tell him that was why 
he had eaten the herbs. It was good to sleep be¬ 
cause there was no pain or hurt in sleep. If he could 
only sleep a long time- 

He waked suddenly, and sniffed. At first he did 
not fully understand what it was in the air that had 
torn aside the curtain of unconsciousness. Then he 



250 


SONNY 


realized that the breeze which swept up the mountain 
was bearing the man smell on its wings. 

Another sniff, long and deep. The men from Ten 
Mile were coming. He knew the scent of them be¬ 
cause it was the scent of danger. They had always 
meant danger to him —and to Dave! He leaped 
to his feet when that last thought flashed through his 
brain. 

Those men were coming to hurt Dave. They 
always came for that. In the darkness of Ten Mile 
the dog had heard the same sullen murmur that now 
came to his super-keen ears. He knew that it would 
grow to a roar as they neared, just as it had that night 
at the jail when they had taken Dave’s teeth away 
and had locked him up. Their guns would flash as 
they had when the master had waited grimly in the 
dry arroyo near the Rumdevil. 

There was no sound of steel-shod hoofs, and the 
dog knew that the horses had been scattered wide by 
the spur of fear. The men were coming on foot, but 
they were coming with death for the master strapped 
to their hips, and shining from their eyes. 

Dave must be warned! 

Up the trail they clattered, a jumble of maddened 
men, forgetful of what had brought them across the 
desert, of the girl who had been found, the money 
earned; forgetful of everything save that their nos¬ 
trils had once more scented the blood trail of a hunted 
human being and that he had once more eluded them, 
and, in eluding them, had been aided by the dog 
who had himself undeservedly earned the name of 
man killer. Not till they gained the clearing where 
father and daughter still faced each other, the one 
gazing at the other with looks that scarcely might 


SONNY 


251 


Have been expected of a father who had found his off¬ 
spring, a daughter who had been recovered, did it 
occur to them that their ;errand was in reality 
completed. 

“Wal, he’s got away again—clean as a whistle—* 
thanks again to that murderin’ cur!” It was the 
sheriff who spoke bitterly, but he spoke without notic¬ 
ing the swift uprising of the belligerent chin of Paula 
Grayson, that chin so like her father’s, effeminized 
though it might be. 

“No, thanks to a lot ot witless ioois!” she com¬ 
mented in clear-cut accents. “You men of the West!” 
she added, in disgusted accents, “—with your palaver 
about justice and a fair chance for all-” 

“Paula! Paula!” It was the gray-haired father 
who spoke, his words accented by distress. “You 
don’t know what you’re saying, child-” 

“Don’t I, though! Don’t I!” Her eyes were 
blazing as she turned them on her father for a mo¬ 
ment, only to transfer them to the men who had sub¬ 
sided into awkward attitudes, bereft of their dignity¬ 
giving ponies, in the face of this unaccustomed de¬ 
nouement. “If they hadn’t lost their heads like a 
pack of school boys and gone off chasing a little dog 
—a mere puppy,” her words of scorn rung out to 
make the most calloused squirm, “I would have told 
them something—just as I would have told you, dad, 
if you had been whiling to listen and hadn’t gone off 
into a tirade about what I had been doing instead of 
listening to what I had learned!” She paused for 
the needed breath that the passion of her tones and 
the voice raised to carry over the mountain theater 
of distance necessitated. “Why don’t you give the 
fair deal you’re always talking about?” she de- 




252 


SONNY 


manded, whirling on the sheriff as the leader of the 
party of burly men of whom her eyes showed no 
fear. “Why don’t you know what you’re doing be¬ 
fore you go hounding a man to death! Now listen 
here, all of you—Dave Deering is not guilty! And 
if you look into your own hearts, all of you, you’ll 
know that’s true without me telling you my reasons 
for knowing it!” 

Uncomfortable stirrings answered her from the 
blood-thirsty posse that but a few moments before 
had been hot on the trail of the hunted. Some of 
them, it must be confessed, looked on the girl and 
thought of the money that would be theirs for finding 
her for her father; others looked into their own 
hearts and knew her words were true. But she had 
not finished. 

“There’s no need going into all the horrid details 
of my adventures since I left Ten Mile, but you 
may as well know that I was captured by that 
terrible brakeman, Dan, who was the one who threw 
my dog off the train and sent me after him in this wild 
manner. What happened wasn’t pleasant—you shall 
all know the details later if you care to—but you must 
take my word for this: When he thought I was in 
his power—that there was no chance that I would 
ever be able to tell what I knew, he gloated before 
me—gloated over a lot of things too horrible to 
mention, but there was just one thing that I knew I 
would live to tell if there was any justice in heaven 
or earth. He told how he, and not Dave Deering 
had murdered your postmaster, and how he had 
managed to throw suspicion on a man that any one 
of you should have known couldn’t have been guilty 
of such a thing- 



SONNY 


253 


In another pause for breath, after a silence that 
had followed each word with the attention that might 
have been given a great actress of the world deliver¬ 
ing her most dramatic speech, as indeed was Paula 
Grayson, out in the vaulted desert foothills with the 
sky alone as her sounding board, the vast distances 
as the limit of the range of her voice, a slight chuckle 
broke the tension. It came from Charlie. He hated 
to see that five hundred fading into the dim distance. 
Nor was he particularly relishing his bound shoulder. 

“Dave Deering has a way with him,” he sneered, 
but his words held a world of meaning. Uneasiness 
from his fellows who had only been awed answered 
his challenge. 

“However that may be,” —the sheriff was doubtful, 
“I reckon it might be just as well to look into this here 
matter a leetle. Now there was that detective jasper 
hit Ten Mile jest before we left—didn’t come with 
us because he wanted to snoop around—was lookin’ 
for Dan, too—wanted him on a lot of other charges, 
I understand, and I, myself, saw Dan bearin’ it toward 
the desert jest before we set out, and-” 

A quiet voice broke in on his further discourse. 
None of them had seen the two men who had come 
quietly up the trail, their horse’s foot-falls so padded 
by the fallen leaves and dense undergrowth as not 
to be noticeable. 

“I heard it all, sheriff,” announced the newcomer, 
quietly. “Miss Grayson is right. Dave Deering did 
not murder Tuttle—I’ve had a long enough time in 
Ten Mile to find out all I wanted to know, and she’s 
right. Didn’t have to work hard, either—evidence 
just fell into my hands, or rather into Si Logan’s 
— er —former bar-room, you might say.” His eyes 



254 


SONNY 


twinkled as he added: “God forbid that I should 
break the laws of my land, even in as far as giving a 

bad Injun hooch, but when necessity demands-” 

The clamor for details that went up quite drowned 
out the tremor of Paula Grayson’s voice as she 
clasped and unclasped her hand about her father’s 
coat sleeve, whispering again and again: “Thank 
God! Thank God!” Cryptically for a moment, her 
parent gazed at her. Then he smiled. It couldn’t 
be as serious as all this. The strain was telling on 
the girl. Paula had sense, and an outlaw, even if he 

hadn’t committed just this particular thing- 

Mark Salter, the detective whom the fourteen- 
year-old boy with the man’s physique had piloted 
across the desert, was again speaking. His hand was 
uplifted in a magisterial manner. 

“All in good time, boys,” he said. “All in good 
time. You’ll find it all out soon enough. There’s 
business now, though, and you’d better be rounding 
up those ponies I saw grazing down in the sage brush 
and be God-a’mighty quick, or you’ll miss your man 
hunt yet. The man you’re after—the right man—is 
around here somewhere, according to Miss Gray¬ 
son’s story, and we’d better hot-foot it after him 
while the footing’s good,” 




CHAPTER XVII 


D AVE must be warned! 

In the mind of the dog that had heard the 
men clattering back up the hill—coming, he 
believed for his beloved master as they always had 
come—that was the paramount thing. 

It did not matter now that the master had told 
him there was no place in the world for the dog. It 
made no difference that the god had cast out his wor¬ 
shiping slave. This was different. It was a dog’s 
duty to protest. The man ears of Dave would not 
hear in time, and Dave would not know the man 
smell of danger. Sonny realized that the men would 
be very silent when they got near to where Dave 
was. He understood that they, too, knew that axiom 
which said that teeth were never to be shown until the 
time came to use them. 

Dave must be warned! 

Sonny limped out from the bushes. The muscles 
of his left thigh felt puckered and drawn. Each 
tauting of thew and tendon caused excruciating pain. 
But there had been pain before in the service of the 
master, and pain was such a little thing compared 
with love. Perhaps it was part of love. 

There was no trail. He forced one. Every small 
opening and lane under the hanging branches was 

255 


256 


SONNY 


taken advantage of. Many of them became blind 
alleys after a few feet of progress, and sheer strength 
sent him through the tangle of vines and creepers. 
Time after time he laid down and rolled in the sooth¬ 
ing softness of the healing grass. The green roots that 
eased the dizziness were plentiful, but he did not dare 
to eat them. They would make him sleep, and he 
must stay awake. 

The man smell was still in the air. Sometimes 
the wind brought it to him, strong and oppressive. 
The calls on his aching muscles had been many and 
long. The seekers in back of him had an open trail, 
and they were pushing ahead steadily. Then came a 
wide lane torn through the growth. There were 
hoof-prints. 

A vine had been torn roughly from the tree 
branches overhead and curled on the ground like a 
green-and-black mottled snake. It might have been 
a snake, so suddenly did the dog stop before it. He 
sniffed at it. Then at the air around it. His head 
went high, and from his throat came a glad bark of 
recognition. Dave had touched that vine. His hand 
had pulled it aside roughly because it was in his way. 
The scent of his hands was on it. 

Again the bark came. A clarion note of warning 
this time, a warning such as an ancestor of a thousand 
years before must have sent echoing through the hill¬ 
sides and valleys. 

The wind-borne report of a pistol sounded faintly 
far back of him. His throat strained and swelled 
with the barking that sent its echoes tumbling and 
tossing back to him. Another shot. It came from 
where the first had sounded. The men from Ten 
Mile were behind. But they had no horses, and were 


SONNY 


257 


tiring. Sonny did not even think about them, except to 
put all the breath of his deep lungs into that warning 
for the master he could not see. 

There was no answer. Only the silence and those 
two shots. He ran ahead. There was no thought of 
the wounded side and the sinews that were twisted 
into knots of torture. Another vine that lay on the 
ground carried on it the touch of the master. Sonny 
once more filled his lungs for the pack leader’s cry 
of warning. 

But there were no more shots. Nothing. The 
dog went on. The trail widened and became 
smoother where Dave had turned into it after his 
short cut. The dog ran on three legs, a wabbling, 
weak-footed cripple because outraged Nature had 
refused to let him laugh at her longer. 

The run became a limping walk. He tried to call 
again, but the effort seemed to tear at his whole body. 
There must be rest before he could go on. He lay 
down, and for a long time he rolled and rubbed and 
licked at the sore place until Nature, content with her 
tithe for a short time, allowed him to go on again. 

At the trail side was another break in the bushes. 
He stopped there, sniffing pantingly. Had Dave 
turned aside into the woods for another short cut? 
His senses seemed less acute than they had been. 
The haze that was continuously before his eyes had 
in some strange manner covered his nose so that the 
scent of the master seemed lost. There was no scent. 
A few painful yards more. 

Some great, unseen hand seemed to wipe away the 
sense-dulling fog that enveloped the world. A new 
scent gripped him tight. It fairly leaped at him to 
smite him. It was in the air over him, in the bushes 


258 SONNY 

all around him, in the torn grass and twigs under his 
feet. 

It was Dan, the brakeman! 

It was the man who had beaten him with the chain 
and kicked him from the Overland train to die; the 
man who had tied him in the desert; the man who 
had been the cause of all their troubles. Their 
troubles! Dan was the one who had started all the 
wrong things that had happened. If it hadn’t been 
for the brakeman, Dave would never have gone to 
Ten Mile. Sonny knew this because Dave had told 
him so many times when they had talked it over. 

Now Dan was near! Very near, for the scent was 
strong. 

He, too, was after Dave! And he was ahead! 
He was nearer to the master than was the dog. Sonny 
tried to put on the ground the foot with the drawn, 
fiery muscles. The pain was so intense that he could 
not walk. He went ahead on three legs cautiously, 
for some instinct arose superior to the blind, un¬ 
reasoning anger that the presence of the brakeman 
always aroused. 

That bullet scratch and the miles of running had 
made him a cripple. There must be no chances taken 
with the man who would hurt Dave if he were given 
an opportunity. Ahead he heard a curse, muffled and 
subdued. But it was the unmistakable voice of Dan 
with its snarling rage. 

“Damn you, Dave Deering!” he heard the ex- 
brakeman scream from somewhere just ahead. “If 

I could git m’ hands on you, or-” The oaths 

were screeched so that they cut through the silence 
like a sharp knife. 

As a sharp knife they seemed to cut into the dog. 



SONNY 


259 


The name of the master from those lips crowded 
everything else from his brain. Perhaps Dan had 
already met Dave. The master might even now need 
assistance. There was an instant of pain so intense 
that it blinded him. The dog’s foot was on the 
ground. He used its force for the spring that sent 
him ahead toward the voice. Two leaps! Three! 
The torture filled all the world. But Dan was right 
ahead. 

A break showed in the grass and bushes. The dog 
tried to stop his blind, crazy leap. But the body was 
no longer capable of obeying the brain. Down steep 
sides of bare rock that countless centuries of flowing 
water had cut he rolled, over and over, a ball of 
yellowish gray hair that was matted with burs and 
dried blood—a kicking scramble of legs. Down l 
Down! 

A rounded bowlder was in his path, and he struck 
it. The blackness that was settling over him changed 
to bright, flashing lights that whirled around and 
around. Then he struck something soft and yielding. 
He heard a grunt. He tried to make his muscles act 
with his brain. But the brain was all dancing lights 
and streaked blackness. 

He lay as he had stopped, half stunned, incapable 
of movement. Fingers tightened on his forelegs, 
fingers that even to his deadened senses bore the ter¬ 
rible scent of Dan, the brakeman. 

For one futile instant the dog tried to break away. 
But there was only the will. The movement that had 
been meant for a wrenching twist of body was no 
more than a twitch. From the lips of the man came 
a harsh laugh. 

“Right in my hands!” There was gloating and 


260 


SONNY 


triumph in the voice. “An’ helpless—knocked plumb 
out!” The dog lay still, and the hand moved gently 
to shake him. “Ain’t dead, are yuh?” came the harsh 
demand. The dog’s body moved slightly. “Thanks 
fer that!” muttered the man. “I’d go crazy if I 
thought yuh went off easy as that.” 

Sonny forced his body around. The man’s hand 
held his one forefoot tight to the ground. But ha 
could move all the other legs, and the pressure of 
the fingers was just tight enough to hold him because 
he was weak. He saw the man lying on the ground 
flat, as though he were tired. The bloodshot eyes of 
the ex-brakeman blazed as they met the eyes of the 
dog. 

“That’s right!” Dan’s voice rose to a scream. 
“Damn yuh! Look at me! Yuh’ll have a lot of 
chance to do that before yuh go this time. Somehow 
I knowed yuh’d get away from that desert. Not at 
first. But since I been here. I knowed yuh’d come. 
An’ I been thankin’ that God fer the first time in my 
life because He put yuh in my hand. The one hand 
that ain’t dead! Git that? Dead!” 

Crimson fires darted from the blood eyes that were 
set in the mask of white face. 

Sonny snapped weakly at the wrist of the hand that 
held him. His jaws clamped on the arm—and his 
head jerked back. 

The laugh of the man, an awful laugh like none the 
dog had ever heard, made the loose lips shake. 

“ ’Tis dead, ain’t it? An’ cold!” He gasped out 
a string of oaths. “Know why? Because yuh an’ 
that girl an’ Dave Deering drove me here to this 
outside hole of hell, where I’m waitin’!” 

Sonny, with a sickness he could not understand, 


SONNY 


261 


tried to draw away from the arm that he had tried to 
bite. It was cold. But the fingers that held him, and 
the strength-taking dizziness were like bonds around 
him. 

“I had everything my own way! A fine graft on 
the Overland. Then yuh fired me out of it! Then 
that old miser, Tuttle, on’y had a few dollars. An’ I 
got Deering. Then yuh came. See that wrist? I 
can’t, but maybe yuh can. The bandages is off it now. 
It bled a lot till it died.” 

The voice rose to a grating screech at the end, and 
the mask of face turned a bluish white. It was ai 
long time before other words came. Sonny tried to 
pull away, but all his muscles were like useless bits 
of flesh that would do nothing. And in his mind was 
some strange, nameless fear. He wanted to get away 
from Dan. Why, he did not know. He had never 
felt the fear before. Perhaps it was because of the 
;eyes that burned so red, or the color of the face, or 
the arm that was cold. 

“She got the best of me!” The words started 
wheezingly and became stronger. “She tol’ me when 
I quit her yuh was mad . An 1 yuh’d bit vie! I laughed 
first. Then it got me. A mad dog had bit me! I’d 
get hydrophobia. I went out into the desert when she 
drove me but I got up in the hills. They say the 
Injuns can fix mad-dog bites. But the fear got me. I 
ran an’ ran. Sometimes I knocked into trees an’ lay 
where I fell. Then I got up an’ ran some more. An’ I 
landed here. Here! )} His voice rose to a scream, 
with whistling breaths between each word. “On that 
bowlder back of my head. My back broke like a 
rotten stick. Then I went dead, all but my arms. 
Then they went. Now there’s only the hand that’s 


262 


SONNY 


got yuh. Maybe it’ll be dead soon, but it’ll die with 
the grip there. An’ yuh can’t break a death grip !” 

The man’s throat twitched and worked after the 
words, and his breath came gaspingly. Once he 
tried with all the power of his will to raise his head so 
he could see the dog that he could only feel. But 
the burning eyes rolled in vain. The neck, too, was 
feeling the slow death of paralysis. 

Sonny tried to pull away. The gripping fingers 
tightened. The dog’s voice lifted, and a queer, 
howling wail sounded. The animal knew that he had 
never uttered such a sound before. He did not quite 
understand why he did it now. It apparendy came of 
its own accord, and he realized that he was trying to 
tell the woods and the silence around him that death 
was coming. 

A horrible grin twisted the man’s blue lips. “A 
dog always howls when the divide gets near, eh?” 
he snarled. “Ol’ Tuttle started to do something like 
that, but I choked it off mighty quick. And when I 
found only that picayune thirty dollars I give him a 
kick in the neck with my heel. A mighty good thing 
I did too. Them nails in my heels did look 
like teeth marks. Why’m I tellin’ yuh this?” he 
screeched suddenly, and added a string of oaths. “I 
don’t know! Jus’ because yuh won’t tell. If yuh 
could, yuh’d never get a word. But it’s good to tell 
yuh how I worked it, and, knowin’ you’ll be dyin’ 
here with me, dead before yuh an’ roastin’ down in 
hell all happy, while you’re here prayin’ in yer dawg 
way fer the thing I got first. There’ll be nobody 
here to get yuh out.” 

It was a much longer time before the weak screams 


SONNY 


263 


were resumed. The man talked continually in 
screams. That seemed the only way he could force 
the words from his lips. 

“I’d like to get Deering!’’ he snarled. “An’ the 
girl! I nearly had her! But I got yuh! An’ yuh’re 
the one! The one that got me in the end. Yuh 
wasn’t mad, was yuh? But maybe yuh will be. 
Damn yuh all! If I only had Deering an’ the girl in 
my other hand, I’d pull the tail off the devil when I 

meet him. Damn yuh-” The oaths shrilled out 

and died to a wheezing whisper. The rattle cut the 
last curse in two, and the blaze went from the blood- 
red eyes. The hand gripped tight around the dog’s 
leg, fingers convulsively biting into the muscle and 
sinews. 

Dan, the brakeman, was dead. 

Again rose the death wail of the dog, long-drawn- 
out and piteous; it was a human cry for understand¬ 
ing of the thing which cannot be understood. Then 
the fear came; the fear of the thing beside him that 
had been a man and was nothing. 

Strength flowed back into the dog’s body. It 
was weakened strength, a diluted form of the stuff 
that usually ran through his veins. But it was fight¬ 
ing strength. Wrenching, pulling, twisting, Sonny 
sought to break the hold. He did not use his teeth 
because he couldn’t. They refused—as though by 
some separate consciousness of their own—to touch 
the arm. So he fought silently, saving his wind for 
the muscles instead of wasting it on the voice. 

There was no thought in his mind of assistance. 
There was only one idea, and that was to get away. 
Far away from everything. His feet tore at the 



264 


SONNY 


round stones of the creek bottom. One great tug 
burned his wounded side like fire and caused the 
man’s head to roll toward him. The dog cowered in 
whimpering, shivering fear. But the man who had 
hated him in life had carried that hate into the grave 
and across the valley of the shadow. The dead 
fingers held the living dog in their icy-steel grip of 
death. 

The wailing howl of the dog rose high; a weird 
minor that quavered in the air. His struggling had 
ceased because a great weakness had seized him. 
The blood from the wound was running steadily. 
He wanted to lie down, but the holding hand held 
his leg upright. Once the faintness caused him to 
fall over sideways, but the wrench of the shoulder 
made him scramble to his feet. 

Above his head came a breaking and snapping of 
bushes. The dog looked toward the top of the cut 
and saw Dave peering down at him over the edge. 
Sonny lifted his voice to bark joyously. But it was 
only that long-drawn howl for the dead that sounded. 
Dave’s face vanished. The master was gone. 

The dog called again. The face did not come 
back. At the top he heard the breaking of bushes, 
and they told him that the god was leaving him. 
Fainter. Fainter. He was alone again. Long min¬ 
utes passed that were silent except for the dog’s 
whimpering. A new sound came, a noise that told of 
heavy boots crunching on small stones and gravel. 
Back of him. Then near him. Dave was coming 
back. 

The big man bent over him. One hand held the 


SONNY 


265 


cold wrist of Dan, the brakeman. The other pried at 
the death-tightened fingers. 

“The devil!” whispered the big man hoarsely. 
“The rotten-hearted devil!” 

It seemed a long time before the death grip was 
loosened. When the thing had been accomplished 
the master straightened up. Sonny crawled to 
him and nosed at his boots. But Dave paid no atten¬ 
tion. He was staring down at the body of Dan. 
Several times the dog rubbed his nose against the legs 
of the man, keeping his shaky body on his feet by 
sheer will. But apparently all the master wanted to 
see was Dan. 

The dog then remembered. The god had made 
him an outcast. He had told him he was out of the 
world. Sonny drew back from Dave. There was 
no use of his staying. Dan was dead and would no 
longer bother Dave. That was all that counted. 
The master would now be safe from the man who 
had caused all the trouble. The dog slunk away. 

“Dawg!” The word made Sonny try to jump 
around. The voice was that same wonderful voice 
full of love he had heard so many times before. The 
sudden movement overbalanced the shaky body, and 
he went down in a heap. The great arms of the man 
scooped him up with a mother tenderness and held 
him to the wide chest. “Dawg!” repeated the man. 
And it was half prayer—half sob. 

For one of the few times in his life Jonathan Gray¬ 
son was silent. There seemed nothing for him to 
say. His eyes, under their shaggy eyebrows, gazed 
in a misunderstanding way at the starry-eyed young 


266 


SONNY 


person who faced him at the distance of a dozen fe.et 
and defied him to come further. This was his 
daughter; Paula, for whose rescue he had offered a 
fortune to the men of Ten Mile, for whom, he, him¬ 
self had crossed a continent; for whom, when danger 
had threatened, he had ridden through a flaming 
desert and a night of terror, for whom, even if it 
were now necessary, he would not only give that 
reward a hundred-fold augmented to the last cent of 
his fortune, but would give his own life to keep from 
hurt or danger. What had happened to her? What 
was the matter? He had come to her with open arms 
—and she had repulsed him. Was repulsing him. 

So intent had father and daughter been on each 
other, each from a different motive, that neither of 
them had been more than vaguely conscious of the 
hurried retreat of the posse after the appearance of 
Mark Salter and what he had said which had proved 
true Paula’s story about Dave Deering and Dan. 
They had gone on their way hurriedly at the swift 
command of the railroad detective, and then Jona¬ 
than Grayson, fond parent, had approached his 
daughter with the yearning he had repressed during 
all the long anxious ride in search of her. Only to 
have her draw back; to leap aside from his embrace, 
to face him with those wide-open eyes which held, for 
the first time in his memory, a sort of loathing. 

“Paula !” At length said the gray-haired man, and 
his shoulders drooped and there was none of the 
usual mastery in his choked tones as he spoke. 
“What is it, dear? What is the matter?” 

But the girl’s eyes, intently searching those of 
her parent, only held a cold contempt. She stood 


SONNY 


267 


erectly, regal as any queen in the sadly worn khaki 
riding trousers that had done much service. 

“You robbed him!” she uttered chillily. “You, 
my own father—you took his all and made of him a 
wanderer,” she added, again mechanically uttering 
the words that had impressed themselves on her. 
“You—my father—to—do—that! You, to look me 
in the face—you who stole Dave Deering’s mine!” 

A blank look! A long stare! A half bewildered 
accent of dawning understanding! Then a loud roar 
of a laugh that echoed far across the desert out 
beyond the trees that hid it from their perspective. 
A long-drawn whistle from the lips of Jonathan 
Grayson whose lips so long since had given over any¬ 
thing of the sort. 

“Dave Deering!” his words came limply, and he 
gazed beneath his shaggy brows quizzically at his 
queenly minded daughter so aloof at her twelve-foot 
distance. “So that’s the jasper! Thought the name 
was familiar! Couldn’t place it when I saw it on the 
handbills, though! Dave Deering! Hmmph!” 
For a moment his thoughts were ruminative, far 
away from the young person whose very attitude 
asked, demanded, an explanation. “Him!” he said. 
“And here I’ve been looking high and low-” 

In a moment, Jonathan Grayson’s mastery returned 
to him. In three long strides he reached the side of 
his daughter and whirled her around to face him, 
unnoticing her protests, her indignation at the rough 
treatment. 

“So you thought, young lady,” he demanded, “you 
thought your father was a thief! And on no better 
authority than the word of an outlaw-” 




268 


SONNY 


“He is not!” Paula Grayson’s own eyes pierced 
deep into her father’s own, wills clashed wills, as she 
superiority made no attempt to break his hold. “And 
you know what you did!” 

“I know what he did was to disappear just when 
he had a fortune within his grasp—I know I’ve spent 
a lot of good time I might have been using to make 
money to buy more dogs for you in searching for 
him—and then I come out here expecting to find you’d 
done most anything, according to your Aunt Alice— 
say, what did she know about this particular cow- 
person anyhow—only he isn’t because he’s a min¬ 
ing person”—in his eagerness, staid, calculating 
Jonathan Grayson was getting as mixed as a school¬ 
boy—“and I discover that you don’t want to be 
rescued at all, but want to hike off to the mountains 
with an outlaw jasper that you think your own father 
has robbed-” 

Paula Grayson’s cool manner would have done 
credit to the most sedate of her finishing school mis¬ 
tresses. 

“Father!” she adjured, icily. “You forget your¬ 
self, I think! Just because I object to your being a 
party to a scheme of stock robbery is no reason to 
accuse me of wanting to elope with your victim.” 

But Jonathan Grayson’s thoughts had been quick; 
his reasoning as swift as the assurance that came to 
him that his daughter’s interest was not purely altru¬ 
istic. 

“You’re going to be sorry for what you’ve said— 
when I get through explaining all about this thing,” 
he said, and he shook her, not as gently as he might 
have in other days, but as he adjudged might be best 
recognized by this new, this newer, this awakened 



SONNY 


269 


Paula. “You’re going to beg my pardon when you 
know all about it—and he will, too!” 

He looked keenly into his daughter’s eyes. Jona¬ 
than Grayson knew what was troubling his Paula— 
and he was not displeased. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


F OR a time that seemed a beautiful eternity, 
Dave Deering held the dog he had rescued. 
They stared at each other with wordless mean¬ 
ing. The tension broke. Sonny lifted his head, and 
his tongue touched the face that was lowered over 
him. His voice lifted in a pitiful parody of his old 
glad yelp. The wailing cry was forgotten. There 
were no dead now. Only the living Dave was in the 
world. 

“I hear yuh, boy,” whispered the master, and his 
voice shook and was choky. “For hours, it looked 
like, I heared yuh. An’ that bark scared me. I’d 
never heared yuh make none like it before. An’ I 
found yuh! Oh, dawg! Yuh’re hurt, ain’t yuh?” 

He gently lowered the animal to the ground as his 
feet scraped a place clear of the rounded stones 
beside the narrow stream of water that trickled at 
the bottom of the creek bed. Kneeling beside him, 
the big man bathed him with hands that were gentle 
and soft, talking all the while. 

“Yuh’re forgivin’ me, ain’t yuh, dawg? For- 
givin’ a pal that threw yuh down an’ called yuh 
things. Course yuh are. Yuh’re a dawg! There 
ain’t no rottenness in your heart, is there? Nothin’ 
but sweetness an’ goodness that don’t seem to find 
room in a man’s carcass.” 

The water cooled and soothed. The burning pain 
went, and with it the dizziness that made the whole 


SONNY 


271 


world revolve crazily. Sonny’s head turned so that his 
nose could rub the man’s brown hand. 

“Sure,” murmured the man. “Sure yuh do!” 

His soothing hands stopped the trembles of weak¬ 
ness that were shaking the dog’s whole body. His 
voice, with its wonderful tones that told so much, 
made Sonny forget everything else. Dave hadn’t 
meant what he had said back there at the rock. He 
was still the loving, breathing god of all the universe. 

“Guess I was crazy this mornin’,” muttered the 
master. “That name and the things I been thinkin’ 
all the nights an’ days just bust up inside me like a 
flood. I had to let ’em go. An’ they didn’t have no 
more respec’ than a flood would, either. Swep’ away 
the biggest thing I knowed. But I guess them hours 
of ridin’ made me see, dawg. A mine ain’t such a 
big thing. It wouldn’t buy nights an’ days in the 
mountains like we’ve had. It wouldn’t buy that heart 
yuh got, would it, boy?” 

Dave sat with his back against a big rock, and 
held the dog between his knees. Sonny looked up 
and saw that the man’s eyes looked down at him with 
the old light. They seemed more shiny and bright 
than he had ever known them. And there was a! 
sparkling drop of water that rested in a corner of one 
'for an instant before it fell. 

“Money that’s stole might buy that hair an’ hide, 
which is scratched an’ tore. It might get autermo- 
biles an’ fine clo’es, but it can’t get nothin’ with a 
heart an’ soul an’ love. An’ that’s what we got, ain’t! 
it, Sonny? I reckon we’re rich, mighty rich. If that 
mine hadn’t been stole—if I hadn’t come hikin’ outta 1 
iTen Mile that day, I’d never knowed what being rich 
was like.” 


272 


SONNY 


Sonny lay very still. On each side of him was the 
warm strength of the man’s knees. Above him was 
the face with its kindly eyes and the mouth that 
curved into words that meant so much to a dog. On 
his body the fingers made the blood in his veins thrill 
to their touch. 

“It’s a funny oY work,” mused the man. “The 
nights I sat alone an’ dreamed of the things I’d do 
w T hen I saw that stock-stealin’ jasper that stripped me 
was all wasted. When the time came I jest showed 
him where his daughter was, an’ then come away. I 
didn’t ever count on doin’ a thing like that. I did 
the biggest thing I could do fer the man I hated most 
in all the work. An’ I did the rottenest, dirtiest, low- 
down thing I could to the one that loved me an’ 
worshiped me an’ ’d be happy to give his life for 
me—the on’y one in all the world I know’s a pal. I 
guess maybe a man’s low-down sometimes because he 
ain’t got sense enough to be different. .Which same 
probably makes a lot of heroes.” 

The dog listened gravely, content to lie quiet and 
know that the master was near and was talking. 

“But it’s all right now, boy. I’ve got yuh again, 
an’, bein’ a dawg, yuh won’t hold my foolishness 
against me, but yuh’ll go on Win’ me just the same 
till yuh die.” 

That last word seemed to shunt the man’s thoughts 
from their channel. He got up slowly, so that his 
knees wouldn’t disturb the dog. His big face was 
gravely serious as he turned to look at the body of 
Dan, the brakeman. Then he reached down to touch 
the head of the dog that stood up shakily beside him. 

“I guess there is a justice, after all, Sonny,” he 
said solemnly. “I thought first, when I heard them 


SONNY 


273 


howls an’ saw Dan, that yuh’d killed him. I was 
sorry, for I wouldn’t want to see yuh stained with the 
blood of a thing like him. Then I seen the signs 
where he fell, an’ when yuh fell. Must have been 
hell fer him, layin’ there, broke in two, an’ I kin see 
the death came to his hand last or he’d have finished 
yuh. I think he paid, all right, and I hope maybe 
he’s happier now. He saw enough hell down here ini 
this creek bottom to satisfy anybody, even the God 
they tell about that squares everything up. Yes, boy, 
yuh got interest for every one of them lashes an’ 
kicks.” 

For a time he stared down at the face of the dead 
man. Its harsh lines of viciousness were softening 
as the hand of death brushed its erasing fingers over 
the features. The dog at his feet shivered and whim¬ 
pered as the fear of the unknown again struck deep. 
Dave turned to him. 

“Reckon’ we’d better be goin’, Sonny,” he said 
quietly. “We’ll have to keep goin’ too, I guess. Yuh 
got your justice, an’ I’m glad. But the on’y man that 
could have cleared me of that Tuttle thing is dead.” 

This time the eyes stared down at the dog, and 
they were full of speculative question. Dave’s head 
shook helplessly. 

“I wonder what he said to yuh before he went,” 
the big man said musingly. “He probably tol’ yuh 
all about it an’ laughed when he confessed. An’ yuh 
can’t tell a soul, boy. Yuh can’t tell a soul.” 

He lifted the dog, and held him close, cradling 
him in the big arms. The whole world, to the dog, 
was full of Dave, and the scent of the man was above 
all else. 

“Keep those hands where they are, Deering!” 


274 


SONNY 


Over tHem the white sombrero of the sheriff 
shaded the sun from the bright barrel of the pistol in 
his hand. The bushes above seemed fairly alive with 
men whose fingers pressed gun triggers. 

Dave’s hand pressed the head of the dog against 
his chest, and stilled the growl that rumbled in the 
animal’s throat. 

“No use, boy,” he said wearily. “Might as well 
get it over with now as any time.” Then he spoke to 
the man above him. “All right, sheriff. Yuh’ll find 
a path down here a bit east. I’m down here with a 
friend of yours.” 

He jerked his head solemnly toward the dead 
man. 

“Keep him covered, Red an’ Joe!” ordered the 
sheriff. “The rest come on. Everybody!” 

Sonny pulled his head away from under the hand. 
He saw the white hat disappear, and all the pistols 
except two vanish. Those two held steadily, their 
muzzles staring down at him like unwinking eyes of 
black. 

The men’s progress through the bushes was noisy. 
Retreating at first, it changed to a scrambling over 
stones. 

“Easy, miss,” he heard the sheriff’s voice say, and 
he felt the body of the master suddenly stiffen and 
the arms around him tightened as though they feared 
the dog was to be snatched away. 

The men came down the. creek bottom—the men 
who had been on the big rock and had tried to kill 
him. The holding hand could not still the growl. 
But the tight arms held the body that writhed in an 
[effort to escape. The dog remembered now that 
these were the men against whom he had come to 


SONNY 


275 


warn Dave. He had not warned him. He had 
forgotten all about the danger. 

“Caught red-handed, eh?” drawled Dave. “An¬ 
other murder. But I don’t reckon yuh’ll find teeth 
marks on this victim of my bloody ways.” 

The sheriff paid no attention. He went swiftly to 
the side of the body and examined it with a keen 
glance. Sonny saw the man standing around Dave. 
Back of them were the girl and the gray-haired man. 
The gray-haired man came forward, his hand out¬ 
stretched toward the big man. 

Like a pivot, Dave turned away from him. 

“I broke his back, sheriff,” Dave said slowly, 
“over my knee. Yuh might give the boys a chancet to 
finish that little party they started back in Ten Mile. 
No use waitin’, an’ I guarantee my dawg don’t inter¬ 
fere.” 

“He fell!” announced the sheriff. “See that torn 
place on the creekside? An’ the marks where he 
dragged his body a foot from that rock.” 

Over Dave’s arm Sonny could see the gray-haired 
man standing with hand outstretched, his mouth open, 
as it had been when he had repeated the word over 
back there on the rock. Then he saw the girl run 
forward. Her hand touched the arm of the big man 
lightly. Once more the dog felt the big body stiffen. 
He looked up, and saw that Dave was staring over 
her toward the sheriff. 

“Make that party quick, Bill,” he asked, and the 
drawl had gone, to leave his voice tense and hard. 

A man that Sonny hadn’t seen before, and who was 
dressed differently from the rest, came forward and 
bent over the face of the dead man. He looked up 
with a nod. 


276 


SONNY 


“Him!” he jerked. He twisted a foot of the dead 
man so that the bottom of the shoe showed. “Heel 
leather missing. Nails worn down now, but they 
stuck out in a half ring the length of the piece of 
leather that came off. That’s what made the marks 
on the throat of the postmaster in Ten Mile. Would 
look like teeth marks of a dog if they was jammed 
against skin,” he nodded. Mark Salter was satisfied 
with his day’s work. 

Sonny heard the girl sob, a sound strangely like 
the first word the big man had uttered when he had 
unloosed the gripping finger of the dead man. 

“Thank God!” once more he heard her murmur. 
“Thank God!” 

So many things were happening, though', the dog 
had to keep his eyes busy continually. 

The sheriff was standing with his hand held out. 

“I’m a fool, Dave, a wall-eyed fool!” he said, 
his voice husky. “But this devil was so slick. 
Him wounded an’ his story. Then there was the 
stamps under the floor, an’ the way yuh hid yore 
trail. Not to mention yore hot words with Tuttle. 
We was so mad we burned yore shack and posted 
them bills. Then the way that dog acted played right 
into Dan’s hands. Did yuh know he was Bill 
Larabie’s brother, down in Ralton? Must ’a’ been 
here before yore time. We all knowed him.” 

Sonny found himself on the ground. Over him 
Dave was shaking hands with the sheriff. Other men 
were crowding around, and their faces told him that 
he should not growl because they were friendly. 
They were all shaking the big man’s hand. The 
sheriff started talking again: 


SONNY 


277 


“It was the girl here, Dave, that started things 
right. She fought us like a tiger when we tried to 
kill the dawg. She shot Charlie Bates through the 
shoulder, an’ held us all off at the point of a gun. 
The dog stampeded the hawses an’ we was plumb 
crazy. We tried to make her stay back, but 
she wouldn’t. I’ll say she’s game as yuh make ’em, 
an’ she did come from New York,” and he hesitated 
just the time it took to throw an admiring glance at 
the girl, who showed no sign of belligerency now, but 
who trembled in the clasp of her father’s arms. “She 
jest kept tellin’ and tellin’ us yuh didn’t do it,” went 
on the sheriff. “We shut her up first. But she kept 
on. Finally, we listened, jest because they didn’t 
seem no other way out. She tole us what Dan tolq 
her, boastin’, and what she heard when he thought 
she was dead to th’ world. Then along come this 
here Mark Salter, the railroad detective—huh, yuh 
ain’t met him have yuh yet, Dave—meet Mr. Salter, 
Mr. Deerin’,” he introduced with gravity, and Dave 
nodded as gravely as though the most serious moment 
of his life had arrived—“an’ he told us she was 
right. Right then was when we fellers started to 
figger things out,” he added pridefully. “We re¬ 
membered as how this Dan jasper had hit town wear¬ 
ing a raggedy suit of clothes but some of the fellers 
said they’d seen a guy with a suit of railroad blue 
kinda hidin’ out in the sage brush jest before old man 
Tuttle was killed—but we hadn’t thought much of 
it ’cause Injun Joe was all lit up splurgin’ around in a 
suit we thought was a cast off-” 

Mark Salter laughed heartily. 

“Hope the Government will forgive me,” he said, 
shortly, with the succinct emphasis he used, not being 



278 


SONNY 


used to wasting words. “Don’t hold with giving 
Injuns hooch, prohibition or no prohibition, but the 
end was worth it. Found this Injun Joe, still half 
lit up—wouldn’t talk—Si Logan gave me the high 
sign—he’d say a lot for a jolt these days—gave it 
to him—spilt the works—Dan gave him the suit and 
a bottle of moonshine to shut up after he’d seen him 
sneakin’ out of old man Tuttle’s place that night-” 

The dog, watching, saw the anxious eyes of his 
master, as he turned to look at the girl who lay sob¬ 
bing in her father’s arms. He saw the sheriff come 
closer and marveled when he saw the big brown hand 
shoot out. 

“Dave!” said the sheriff, his tone humble, “we’re 
all a bunch of plumb fools. Kin yuh forgive us?” 

But the dog saw the big man wasn’t listening. He 
held out his hand to the girl, and his head was bare. 

“Thank yuh, ma’am,” he said simply. “Yuh’ve 
done a lot for me.” 

“Time you did something for yourself!” The 
booming voice made the dog jump. It came from the 
gray-haired man who had held the girl in his arms. 
“I’ve been looking for you for three months or 
more.” 

“Yuh took all I had,” said Dave coldly. “Why 
look further.” 

“Rot!” bellowed the big man. “That’s what my 
fool daughter said before I had a chance to put in a 
word. Think I robbed you, don’t you? Think I’m 
a piratical old thief who ought to be drawn and quar¬ 
tered? Rot! Rot again! I’m a business man— 
that’s what I am! You need a guardian. Don’t you 
know that under the new State corporation tax act in 
this State the Twin Wells Mine would be taxed a 




SONNY 


279 


hundred thousand a year? Sure! Fool legislature! 
What to do, but juggle the stock to get it into the 
possession of a dummy holding company over the 
State border in the next State where the lawmakers 
will give capital a chance? You own fifty-five per 
cent of that company, as you would have found out 
;easy enough if you hadn’t gone off half cocked. And 
the stock is worth five times par value right now! I 
wrote a dozen letters telling you so, but when nobody 
could find you, I thought there wasn’t anything left to 
do, seeing you were a wild Westerner with anything 
likely to happen to you (and I guess I wasn’t right, 
huh?) but to advertise for your heirs. Nobody 
could find you. Huh, you need a guardian. 
Ba-a-ah!” He snorted and blew his nose in a truly 
terrible way. 

Sonny saw that Dave and the girl were still holding 
each other’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes. 
That was all he had time to see. Arms plucked him 
from the ground. The arms of the sheriff. 

“An’ here’s a w<2w-dawg, boys!” he shouted, and 
it struck Sonny curiously that he no longer wanted to 
bite the man in the white hat. That voice sounded 
strangely like the big man’s when the dog had done 
something right. “A dawg that don’t fear neither 
weight nor numbers, nor the lead of a spittin’ gun! 
A man-dawg!” 

A great shout rose to split the heavens; greater 
than any noise the dog had ever heard human throat 
utter. But, like the new voice of the sheriff, it was a 
very good sound to hear. All the world was laughing 
with him, and telling him what a fine, good dog he 
was. Three times that thunderous noise split the sky. 


280 


SONNY 


Many hands reached out and touched him, and they 
were kind hands and gentle, each with its caress. 

‘‘Anything in Ten Mile’s his’n!” yelled a man, and 
the dog saw it was the man with the bandaged 
shoulder; the one who had taken Dave away that 
day in the mountains; the one the dog thought he 
hated with undying hatred. But now he found that 
Charlie’s hands were just as soft and gentle as the 
rest. 

“Anything!” yelled the crowd. 

With a wave of his hat high over his head, the 
gray-haired man added his voice to the rest. 

“Anything here, too!” he boomed. “Li’l old 
Sonny!” The dog heard, through the booming 
echoes, the same tone he had heard when the gray¬ 
haired man had stopped to pat him surreptitiously in 
the big perfumed house, and had called him “Sonny!” 
The big man knew his name. Had always known it. 

The dog turned in the arms that held him. There 
was Dave, laughing with the others. And the girl 
smiling at him, too, with eyes that were bright and 
shiny. But the girl and Dave were not waving their 
hands and hats. Both of their hands still held to¬ 
gether. He heard Dave’s voice. 

“They sure love our dog!” the big man said. 

“Oz/r dog!” the girl whispered sofdy. 

“I told you before, and I say it now—you need a 
guardian!” 

There was a twinkle in Jonathan Grayson’s eyes 
and a meaning that neither Dave Deering nor Paula 
caught as he spoke, so intent were they each on the 
other. 

Three hours had passed; hours replete with a 


SONNY 


281 


dramatic fervor that none of them would ever forget. 
The wonder of it was that even Ten Milers, who 
never forgot when hunger called, had so far forgotten 
that eating was a regular thing that they had let the 
sun pass its meridian before someone had had the 
temerity to call attention to the dereliction. Then 
the whole party had repaired to the cabin where 
Dave and Paula had spent the night and Sonny had 
again had an opportunity to nose about and help 
with the dinner getting—a dinner that lacked nothing 
of the festivity of a banquet save that it w T as com¬ 
posed of potatoes and bacon, and hastily concocted 
biscuits which the sheriff himself insisted on making in 
memory of the time he had once been his own chef. 

Now they were gone; on their way back to Ten 
Mile; jubilant; with a friend back—those men who 
had come out to kill and gone back to rejoice; gone 
a short half hour since, to wind their way down the 
foothills to the waiting desert for a long, long trail. 

Jonathan Grayson had refused to go back. 

“Now that I’m this far,” he said, with a decided 
shake of his head, “I’m not going back until I see this 
wonderful mine I’ve had so much trouble about. 
The owner will show it to me,” proudly indicating 
Dave who, with the honors that had been so recently 
thrust upon him was standing uneasily wandering 
how best to take them. Paula had voted to go w T ith 
her dad. 

Now they were alone; the three; and Jonathan 
Grayson was once more declaring himself. Jonathan 
Grayson didn’t like to be the one at fault, even in his 
own mind. 

Dave Deering listened a moment, then turned, at 
the bark of the dog and followed him through the 


282 


SONNY 


underbrush. Paula Grayson looked up from her seat 
on the cabin doorstep to remonstrate with her parent. 

“You shouldn’t be so rough with him, dad,” she 
said quietly. 

The father walked over to her side and stood 
looking down at her for a moment. 

“Paula, girl,” he said, and there was a moisture in 
his eyes. “You are so much like your mother. 
You’re loyal, no matter who, what, or why. She was 

like that-” He hesitated a moment. “You— 

you love him, don’t you?” he finally asked. De¬ 
fiantly her head nodded reply. “No matter 

what-” He finished, and the head nodded more 

vigorously. Jonathan Grayson’s eyes were dim for 

a moment. “She—she was like that-” he said 

again huskily. 

But as he looked at the daughter, so much like him¬ 
self, in spite of her likeness to the mother, a chuckle 
came to his throat. 

“Too bad to spoil your romance, and ruin your 
aunt’s terrors, though,” he said. “You think,—she 
knows, you’ve hiked off over the desert after a wild 
one—well, child, here’s what I know! I’ve found 
out a lot about your Dave Deering in the months I’ve 
been looking for him. You can’t exploit him a bit at 
one of your parties. He’s as used to a dress suit as 
your Pet-Sonny is to a silk pillow. He’s got a college 
diploma and an army uniform tucked away some¬ 
where. And at school they tell me he was a shark 
at languages. I ’low,” and his own voice took on the 
Western twang, “that’s why he took so easy tuh th’ 
langwidge o’ the plains-” 

Paula Grayson’s laughter rang out above the tree 






SONNY 


283 


tops as she jumped up to give her parent a big 
squeeze. 

“Oh, dad! Dad!” she bubbled. “I believe yuh 
could do hit yourself!” 

Jonathan Grayson’s answer was a wave in the 
direction of the trees through which Dave and the 
dog had disappeared. 

“Better look out for your dog,” he admonished. 
‘‘He’s likely to get in more trouble. I’m going to 
take a nap.” 

He disappeared through the cabin door. Paula 
Grayson, nonchalantly strolling, came upon Dave 
Deering and Sonny at the top of a knoll from which 
could be had a wide view of the desert beneath and 
the knot of horsemen who ambled along. Borne by, 
the warm breeze, there came to them the refrain of a 
song the men of the desert country—a country where 
there was no rain—were singing. Paula’s soft 
chuckle roused the man brooding beside his dog. He 
lifted up his head to hear the song. 

“I’ll swan, I must be gettin’ on 
Git eup, Napoleon, it looks like rain; 

I’ll be switched, the hay ain’t pitched, 

Come in when you’re over to th’ farm agin.” 

“Men are such children,” said Paula Grayson, 
irrelevantly as suddenly. “They think so little of 
vital things-” 

Dave Deering rose and towered in all his strength 
and manhood over her. He reached down a moment 
to pat the head of the dog that snuggled close to him. 

“What vital things in the world are there?” he 
asked, “a man—a woman,” came a pause, “children 
—and a dog!” 



284 


SONNY 


For just that moment that it took for the song to 
(die to a faint echo through the desert air, their eyes 
held. Then hands went to meet hands. 

Sonny, wise dog, with many strange things in his 
mind that would be thoughts if learned scientists 
allowed them to be, knew that another, a greater, 
love had come. 

The sound of the voices grew faint; fainter; died. 
Silence. Over all the hills came silence. But through 
that silence, like threads of silver and gold, came the 
crooning lullaby of that greater love. 

And the dog was very glad. His one great god 
could be worshiped now. And there was another, a 
but little lesser goddess, to protect and care for. 


END 











































































































